


Shattered into Ash

by Dexterous_Sinistrous



Series: The Dread Wolf [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Dark Peter Hale, Explicit Sexual Content, King Consort Stiles Stilinski, King Derek Hale, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-01-15 14:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12322545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dexterous_Sinistrous/pseuds/Dexterous_Sinistrous
Summary: Peter sneered, “Let him get the better of you. It’s foolish of me to think you could rule as a King.”Derek turned a glare on his uncle.“Tell me, will the Dread Wolf of Triskelia bow down to a boy?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I had announced this a long time ago, but I kept revisiting it and finally got to a point that I was really happy with it.
> 
> This is like a companion piece to Things We Lost. It sheds light on Derek's perspective during the events of the first fic, and also introduces some new things that occurred during the time jumps.
> 
> For example, this entire chapter deals more with what happened while Stiles was pregnant, shedding light on the reasons why Stiles was so withdrawn and held back from Derek; and why Stiles believed Derek to have a mistress.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Derek was ten when his mother brought him down to the crypt beneath the palace. He had been scared to travel there, Laura filling his head with thoughts of ghosts. He followed behind his mother with his hands fisted by his sides, his gaze remaining glued to the way the skirts of Talia’s dress dragged against the ground. He halted when he realized his mother had paused her strides. He looked up at the statue they were in front of, recognizing it as his father.

“No King or Queen rules alone, Derek, remember that,” Talia had instructed him, looking up at Samuel’s statue, a fondness covering her features. “No man can be too powerful or too proud without misfortune befalling them. Allow yourself the luxury of understanding that. You must always be willing to do whatever you ask your subjects, never act as if you are above them.”

“We’re predators, not killers,” Derek had recited to her.

Talia smiled as she turned to look at Derek. She gently touched Derek’s face, cupping his cheek in her hand.

“Will I … will I have a statue like father?” Derek asked as his eyes drifted towards the statue of his father.

“One day, darling,” Talia answered, taking hold of his hand as she led him out of the crypt. “One day we all will.”

That day came sooner than they believed possible.

Derek had been seen as a potentially benevolent ruler, striding to rival his mother’s reign. That was until Kate took everything from him. After the fire, Derek had pulled back from the Court, from the public eye in general. He gave into his hate and guilt, throwing himself into becoming the military leader his mother tried to avoid becoming, for both herself and her children.

It was the day Derek had officially sealed the peace treaty with Beacon that Peter announced, for a second time, his disapproval for Derek’s actions. The first time, Peter would never let Derek forget the embers and ash that remained from Kate’s betrayal—how Derek cost them both their family.

“You’ve been bugging me to get married for some time,” Derek sighed as he moved the maps around the war table.

“To a Triskelian—or some random courtier,” Peter snapped. “Not to some conniving brat from a neighboring kingdom.”

“Do you want revenge on the Argents or not?” Derek countered as he looked up at Peter. “Beacon is a financially rich kingdom. King Jon has one heir—who, according to the Court, is a dangerous political opponent. It would be wise of me to accept him as my consort than to allow him to ally with another.”

Peter released an annoyed grunt of disapproval, knowing Derek had reason on his side.

“With his marriage to me, it crosses him out of inheriting Beacon and gives those rights to an heir he gives me,” Derek added, looking back at the maps as he tried to stay ahead of the rumor mill concerning the Argents and their movements. “If he is as smart as they say he is, perhaps he’ll see reason enough to realize that his wagon is hitched to my war horse, and the best way for him to survive this cesspool of a world, is to help me succeed.”

“You know nothing about this boy besides rumors,” Peter stated.

“Then I better hope conversation comes easily to me while around him,” Derek gruffly answered, wishing his uncle would leave him.

Conversation, however, didn’t come easily with Stiles. It all went to hell the more Stiles tried to talk to Derek. Derek didn’t know how to react to someone talking to him so much. He knew that if he opened his mouth, he’d more than likely insult Stiles an infinite amount of ways.

And then, Peter started to insult Stiles at every turn as the days counted down to the wedding. Stiles would bite his tongue and glare at Peter. Derek knew that Stiles would be upset with him for not saying anything, but Peter also knew that Derek couldn’t.

Peter had expertly made certain that he spoke whenever Derek’s generals were present, guaranteeing there was an audience—one that did not look at Stiles in a favorable light. If Derek made a move to defend Stiles, Peter would turn it against him, trying to show that Stiles had tamed the Dread Wolf of Triskelia. All of it was in hopes of outmaneuvering Derek, with his sights on the throne that had evaded him his whole life.

Their wedding was a hollow, empty affair.

Stiles was as pliant as a corpse—stiff and unhelpful when Derek kissed him.

Derek hated it. He couldn’t deny his attraction to Stiles, catching himself staring at him whenever possible. He longed to reach a hand out, to gently brush his knuckles against the soft curve of Stiles’ cheek. But he knew his advances were unwelcomed, catching the way Stiles would pull away from him whenever they were close enough to brush hands.

Derek pondered what he could do to avoid consummating their marriage, knowing it was unavoidable once their wedding reception was well under way.

The crown was weighty, and causing Derek’s neck more pain than anything else. He detested wearing the infernal thing, always trying to escape having to wear it, unless ceremony demanded it. He preferred his war helmet.

His eyes tracked Stiles, watching him easily converse with the different courtiers. He felt a pull—a deep longing to claim Stiles as his mate. It was a foolish, primal desire that he couldn’t get rid of. Still, he couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering to Stiles’ long stretch of neck. Pale, smooth skin decorated with a series of moles. He knew he had been staring when Stiles caught him looking. He was relieved for Peter asking to speak with him.

“Congratulations are in order, nephew,” Peter started once they reached one of the secluded inner rooms.

“First you yell at me, now you congratulate me,” Derek countered as he removed the crown from his head. The crown was heavy in his hands, a physical reminder of the responsibility weighing down on him—the people who relied on him.

“Making sure you know what is at stake,” Peter corrected him.

“And how are you doing that?” Derek questioned.

“By reminding you that the last time you revealed yourself to an intended, it ended with a majority of our family dead,” Peter harshly answered. “He may legally be your husband now, but he is still a human—one that you know little about.”

“And whose fault is that?” Derek demanded. “You ridiculed him at every turn, knowing I could not defend him against it without my generals questioning my strength.”

“With good reason,” Peter explained. “I’m keeping you from forming an attachment to him.”

“And why is that?”

“Because if he were to conceive a child, even without knowing what we are, he can easily maneuver to have you killed and place himself in a position of absolute power,” Peter growled. “He is smarter than anyone you have ever had to deal with in the past. And he will easily cut you down if you let him.”

Derek was silent as he turned from his uncle.

“Fuck him to your heart’s content if you want,” Peter sneered. “Let him get the better of you. It’s foolish of me to think you could rule as a King.”

Derek turned a glare on his uncle.

“Tell me, will the Dread Wolf of Triskelia bow down to a boy?” Peter asked in a condescending tone.

~*~

Derek would never lie about how breathtaking Stiles was. Even in the faint glow from the fireplace, he could still see Stiles’ beauty. He wondered if Stiles rejected the other suitors for a definite cause—if he would have agreed had King Jon pressured him. He was oddly pleased when Stiles spoke his mind, telling Peter directly that their arrangement was political genius, uniting two of the most powerful kingdoms that both seemed to be lacking in what the other needed.

And now, with his hands on Stiles’ body, Derek wasn’t exactly sure how he ended up lucky enough to have Stiles as a Consort. As King, Derek had plenty of options when it came to warming his bed. He had men and women of his choosing, never having to worry about strings being attached, his bedmates always knowing the arrangement was temporary. He never grew attached to any of them, but made sure they were always accommodated well upon departure.

But none of those bedmates compared to Stiles—the way even his voice caused Derek’s wolf to react was telling of itself.

Stiles moaned when Derek expertly curled his fingers, catching the right spot to make his breath catch and his eyes squeeze tight as he prayed for release. He reached a hand back, fingernails digging into the skin of Derek’s forearm as he urged him on. He was thankful that Derek’s other arm was wrapped around his waist, keeping him from collapsing onto the bed.

Derek mouthed at the curve of Stiles’ shoulder blade, teeth digging into his skin. He gently nipped when Stiles jerked his hips forward, trying to escape Derek’s prodding.

“I’m going to come,” Stiles shyly admitted in defeat when Derek kept his hips from moving forward again.

“Good,” Derek answered as he moved to sit up, spreading Stiles’ legs far enough apart to house his hips. He removed his fingers, his hands trailing along the sides of Stiles’ hips as he appreciated the view.

Stiles was gorgeous. He surpassed every other person Derek thought about courting. His skin was softer than some women’s, pale but healthy in nature, adorned in various beauty marks. His limbs were long and slender, elegant for his broad shoulders. His face was angelic, carved to perfection with a slender nose and plump lips accompanied by a pair of deep orb like eyes.

Derek didn’t have to focus his desires elsewhere, knowing full well that his wolf would never want to be with another once laying claim to Stiles. He didn’t want to think about sharing another’s bed, not when he had Stiles’ to call his own.

A soft groan leapt from Stiles’ throat, shifting into a moan when Derek gripped his ass. He let Derek angle him until his face was pressed down into the pillow, his ass in the air for Derek to do what he wanted.

“If it’s too much, I’ll stop,” Derek stated, his hand softly coaxing up Stiles’ side in a comforting manner.

“I’ll let you know,” Stiles replied, his breath coming in a series of short pants.

Stiles tensed the moment he realized that Derek was a lot bigger than he assumed he was at first glance. He squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth dropping open in a silent breath of pain. He reached a hand back, grasping Derek’s hip. “Stop, wait.”

Derek halted, his fingers gently rubbing soft circles into Stiles’ hips, drawing the pain away while Stiles remained unaware.

Stiles pushed himself up onto his hands, gently pressing himself back onto Derek, controlling the movement.

It took them a while before their bodies both agreed to a pace and rhythm. Stiles eased into the motions, his body becoming adjusted to the weight of Derek’s hips thrusting into him.

When it was over, Derek didn’t want to leave the bed. His muscles ached, in all the right ways. His eyes drew heavy with sleep, trying to convince him to stay. It was the erratic heartbeat of Stiles beside him that forced his movements to get dressed. He could feel the anxiety and fear in Stiles’ very aura, prompting him to vacate his space. He wanted Stiles to feel like he had some control of his life, instead of the understanding that most Consorts came to—they were meant to silently observe while rearing children for their King or Queen, and nothing more.

Despite it all, Derek let himself hope that the tang of disappointment he caught in Stiles’ scent as he left meant that there was more to be had from their relationship than sex. But as time progress, it appeared that all they had in common were arguing and sex.

They continued in an agreed existence with one another, often times resulting with them coupling before parting. There were times when Stiles spoke out of turn, nearly baiting Derek to do something.

That wasn’t why they were hidden away in a private parlor as the ball continued on outside. That wasn’t why Stiles was digging his nails into Derek’s scalp, biting his bottom lip to keep quiet. That wasn’t why Derek’s grip on Stiles’ hips was bruising as he worked his mouth over his cock.

Stiles’ thighs were trembling as they housed Derek’s head. Both his legs were shaking, one helped to prop him up, foot digging into the couch cushion next to them as the other leg hung draped over Derek’s shoulder. Stiles released a faint yelp when Derek’s finger pushed against his rim, his hips jerking up into Derek’s mouth.

The Court’s desire to flirt with Stiles was the cause of their intermission from the ball.

Stiles had remained near Derek for the night, still getting used to the way the Court played out differently in Triskelia than Beacon. There was more of a direct approach to insult than in Beacon—Stiles was used to the backroom politics Beacon played by and prided himself in knowing more than enough about those Courtiers responsible for trying to humiliate him.

And the Courtiers pounced the moment Derek had left Stiles’ side to go speak with some diplomats.

“How are you finding Triskelia?” An older lord had asked Stiles.

“Welcoming,” Stiles strategically answered.

“Far more exotic than Beacon, no doubt?” One of the ladies questioned.

Stiles allowed his brow to bristle at the wording. He knew it was a trap, an evident one for him to fall into and humiliate himself. “Both our kingdoms are alike in many ways,” he commented.

“More exciting here than there, though, no?” Another lord pushed. He was a plump older man, who looked down his nose at Stiles as often as he could—even when Stiles caught him staring.

“I suppose my life is rather exciting since I married, when you put it that way,” Stiles allowed. He saw the faint smirk the other courtiers suddenly were sporting.

“You never lost your senses one night?” A lady asked behind the anonymity of her fan.

Stiles partially narrowed his eyes in confusion, not completely familiar with the term. “I tried to keep myself from drinking too much wine, if that is what you mean,” he answered, wishing to back out of the conversation completely.

“You’re positively precious,” the older lady laughed with delight. “Trysts, your Highness. That is the topic of our discussion.”

Stiles was a little surprised by her honesty, wondering what made them so eager to speak of love affairs with him. He had many suitors, but none that he accepted as officially courting him. He had spurned more than one lord and lady by sending back gifts and unopened letters.

“Beacon holds less tolerance for them than Triskelia, isn’t that true?” The lady with the fan asked.

“Beaconian Court is more private about their affairs,” Stiles offered, feeling uneasy with such a topic.

“If you would forgive our forwardness, your Highness. Being royal, we assumed you would have had a lover back home,” one of the lords offered. He was a younger gentleman, appearing to be less malicious in his intent and more determined to educate Stiles.

Stiles cleared his throat some, looking down at his champagne glass. “That is not a common practice in Beacon.”

“It’s like second nature in Triskelia,” the older lady stated with a suspicious smile. “Every Triskelian ruler has had at least one lover before taking a Consort.”

“Or several,” another lady giggled.

“It must have been relieving to have a husband with such experience,” the plump lord commented.

Stiles finally understood their motive for engaging him in conversation. They wanted him to either play the nitwit of a Consort by feigning knowledge of Derek’s supposed former lovers, or to confirm that Derek had former lovers and cause scandal. He drew in a deep breath, wanting to call them all cowards and childish for their actions.

“What experience I or my husband have is privy to the walls of our rooms,” Stiles stated. He wanted to roll his eyes when the courtiers dared look unimpressed with him. “Or perhaps the ears press against the door, trying to steal a listen, could tell you.”

Stiles didn’t wait for a response, he turned to leave the Courtiers behind, unwilling to feign embarrassment. He moved off to the side of the room, accepting another champagne glass from one of the servants, quietly thanking them for such a distraction. He picked at the food near him, finding a love for the sweets as he mindlessly ate more than a handful of them. He didn’t care if Courtiers were gawking at him—sweets calmed his nerves, and he needed that now of all times.

Stiles drank more than he normally did, his stomach feeling weak as a result. He pressed a hand to his stomach, wishing he had rethought his determination in getting drunk. He was surprised when a hand grabbed his own, a firm grip holding him. He turned to look at the owner, rolling his eyes when he saw that it was none other than Derek.

Stiles let Derek pull him along, holding him close. He leaned into Derek’s arms, glad that someone was guiding him. He turned to look at the Courtiers, wanting to laugh at them now that they looked docile, all in response to Derek being with him.

Stiles was the one that kissed Derek, feeling vulnerable and in need of the contact. He ran his fingers through Derek’s hair, wishing he had come to his bed the past few days. He craved to be held—to pretend that his husband loved him. He pressed kiss after kiss against Derek’s lips, slightly surprised that Derek pulled him close and gave back as much.

Derek left a fleeting kiss on Stiles’ lips, pulling back long enough to guide them to a side parlor.

Stiles didn’t care how public it was, knowing that the entire Court would be buzzing with gossip. He liked the way his body lit up with excitement when Derek touched him in public, knowing that it meant something.

It meant that Stiles didn’t just belong to Derek, but that Derek enjoyed laying claim to Stiles, making sure he knew who he belonged to—who pleased him.

Stiles’ legs tensed when he came, Derek being the only thing keeping Stiles from slipping off his precarious position on the edge of the parlor’s reading table. One of his hands remained buried in Derek’s hair, trying to keep balance as he steadied himself against the table with the other. His legs were weak, nearly buckling under his weight as he tried to make himself presentable once more. He knew it was pointless, feeling the flushed burn in his cheeks as he struggled to catch his breath once more. Everyone would know why he looked to be in such a state, but no one would dare say anything, not when it was Derek who exited the room with him.

No, the Dread Wolf of Triskelia could very well pleasure his Consort in front of the entire Court, and no one would protest. They would allow their insults and sharp barbs to sting at Stiles, but the moment Derek was in hearing range, that all changed. It was honeyed words and kind, yet forced, smiles.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Derek asked, looking in the faint reflection of the windowpanes as he halfheartedly fixed his hair.

Stiles ran a hand through his own hair, releasing a small huff of air as he tried to stop his head from spinning. “Not that you care,” he replied.

“Yes, that’s exactly why I asked you,” Derek deadpanned, turning back to look at Stiles.

“Your Courtiers are infuriating,” Stiles finally stated, pulling at the wrists of his sleeves.

“That’s an understatement,” Derek answered, carefully observing Stiles.

Stiles reached for Derek’s half finished champagne glass, wishing for his buzz to not leave him. He released a small noise of indignation when Derek took the glass from his hand.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Derek replied, placing the glass onto the windowsill’s surface, just out of Stiles’ immediate reach.

“I’m not a child,” Stiles started, softly glaring at Derek, prepared to making a grabbing dash for the glass if necessary.

Derek arched his eyebrow at Stiles. “The pout says otherwise,” he commented. “You’re going to hate yourself in the morning if you don’t drink some water,” he added in a tone of concern.

“What makes you think I don’t hate myself tonight?” Stiles countered, turning to glare at Derek. His features softened some when he saw how calm and open Derek looked. “Forgive my words,” he offered, slouching some as he leaned against the parlor’s table once more. “I’ve not felt well the past few days. And it’s infuriating to not know the cause.”

“I could send for Deaton,” Derek started, taking a step closer to Stiles.

Stiles carefully shook his head, staring down at Derek’s feet. “Melissa will be here soon,” he uttered. “I’d feel more comfortable with her, if you don’t mind.”

Derek nodded in understanding. “I wouldn’t press you to be tended to by someone you don’t particularly like.”

Stiles looked up at Derek. “I’m just not comfortable with how enigmatic he is,” he finally answered.

Derek released a faint laugh, in complete agreement with Stiles’ observation. “I’ll send a few riders out to meet Melissa half way, to guarantee she gets here faster.”

Stiles offered Derek a small smile. “Thank you,” he quietly uttered.

Derek reached a hand out, gently cupping Stiles’ cheek in his open palm. He leaned forward, pressing a faint kiss to Stiles’ forehead. He concentrated on draining the pain away from Stiles, pulling the sickness and anxiety from him.

Stiles closed his eyes, a small sense of calm falling over him. His head suddenly felt clearer, his stomach settled.

Derek pulled back when he was confident that Stiles felt better. He looked down at Stiles, his eyes briefly flickering to his stomach, knowing he caught the scent of something different in Stiles. He could smell the sweetness of the sugary treats Stiles snuck between meals, the exhaustion that hung over Stiles causing him to sleep in the most random of places.

It wasn’t until Derek focused that he realized Stiles’ heartbeat wasn’t ticking out of time from restlessness as he once thought. There was a second heartbeat, faint but present as it beat deep within Stiles, echoing the rhythm of his heartbeat.

And Derek didn’t dare to be the one to break the news to Stiles.

~*~

Derek wanted to snort when Peter dramatically dropped the papers onto his desk. He looked from the papers to Peter, arching his eyebrow at his uncle. “Are you going to explain your dramatics for once?”

“He blocked your order,” Peter seethed.

Derek allowed his general surprise to overtake his features as he reached for the papers to inspect. He calmly read the papers as he deciphered what his uncle was still ranting about. “He rerouted my request for funds to be sent to the armory,” he commented as he read Stiles’ elegant script deter his inquiry about excess funds being spent for military purposes.

“He directly disobeys you,” Peter started.

“That’s a bit dramatic,” Derek answered as he placed the papers down.

“He blocked your order,” Peter corrected him.

“He’s allowed to,” Derek replied. “He has control over a majority of Beacon and its holdings. If he wants to block how I spend its treasury, he’s allowed to. And it wasn’t an order—it was a request I placed. And requests can be denied, even a king’s.”

“You let that brat keep control of Beacon?” Peter incredulously asked.

“That _brat_ is the only reason we have access to Beacon,” Derek partially growled, still not appreciating the way Peter spoke of Stiles.

"You let a child out wit you," Peter snapped.

“You’re overreacting,” Derek sighed, even knowing that the Court would see it how Peter did.

“He is making a fool of you,” Peter countered. “If you don’t do something about it, you will lose the respect they have for you.”

“You mean the fear they have of me,” Derek replied, turning his attention towards Peter. “They don’t respect me. They cower beneath my heel.”

“All the better to keep them from trying to snatch power away,” Peter answered. “If you don’t put that boy in his place, I will.”

Derek’s body tensed, his shoulders settling in a rigid line as he glared at Peter. “Tread carefully, uncle.”

“If you won’t protect this family, it will end up like before,” Peter lectured.

“Stiles is not Kate,” Derek lowly stated, his eyes slowly glowing a dull red as his anger rose.

“You’re right,” Peter mocked. “He’s smart enough to not pretend to love you.”

“None of this concerns you,” Derek growled.

“Stiles is—”

“Carrying _my_ child,” Derek nearly roared at Peter, his eyes bleeding red as his control slipped. He didn't like the way Peter's words challenged him—the threat lingering in the air, towards his mate and child.

Peter shook his head, turning his back on Derek. “Already.”

“You told me to fuck him to my heart’s content, remember?” Derek challenged. “He’s mine to deal with, not yours. You’ll mind your bounds.”

“I’ll mind my bounds when you actually do something about it.”

~*~

Derek could smell the anxiety coming off of Stiles. He saw Stiles’ hand instinctively moving towards his stomach before correcting course to grip at the table. And still, Stiles faced Derek with no fear in his eyes, completely confident that his actions, though crass, were the right ones.

It hurt Derek more to think of how Stiles likely didn’t want their child. _His_ child. He wondered when Stiles would tell him—if he would wait until healers had to be called. Or if Stiles thought Derek was stupid enough to not notice the way he stumbled with dizziness at times, or had grown unwell in the mornings—or perhaps Stiles believed he could conceal the entire pregnancy as weight gain in a fooling rouse to keep Derek from knowing he would have an heir within the year.

~*~

Stiles ran his hands over his face, releasing a sigh of frustration as his touch traveled down his body to cradle his stomach. He had noticed the way his stomach had begun to expand, wondering how he would keep a semblance of a relationship with Derek now that he was with child.

The task had been completed, and it was only a matter of months before Derek would have an heir.

Stiles gently ran his hand under the curve of his belly, fingertips pulling at the material of his shirt. He looked up at the mirror, a frown pulling at his lips. He wondered what would happen to him after the child was born. If he would be allowed to be a part of the child’s life, or if he’d be barred from certain moments. This wasn’t the family he pictured he would have.

Derek had taken to drinking more frequently since Stiles informed him—Stiles tried to not take that personally.

It was another dreary day, one that Stiles wished he had been allowed to spend relaxing instead of being stuck in the war room. More than one of the generals were arguing with each other, all trying to have the last word as they rationalized their own methods for dealing with the next threat.

Stiles took his time walking around the tables, his eyes scanning the maps. He paused when he saw a marker symbolizing a battalion of troops placed over the intricate designed coat of arms that represented Beacon.

“Why is there a battalion in Beacon?” Stiles asked, looking passed the generals and directly at Derek.

Derek had been watching Stiles, ignoring his generals’ bickering completely.

The generals nearly silenced themselves completely when they realized Stiles was directing his question at Derek.

“They’re keeping your father and kingdom safe,” Derek flatly answered.

“From what?” Stiles demanded.

Derek stared at Stiles. “If you recall our last conversation in this room, dear husband, you’ll recall that Beacon has no true military.”

Stiles tried not to flush at the reminder of their fight.

“That doesn’t mean they need a battalion just sitting there,” Stiles countered. “And I think I know you better than you think, husband. You wouldn’t place a battalion there unless you had to.”

A faint, yet fond, smile pulled at Derek’s lips. “Too clever for me,” he commented as if to himself as he stood to his full height. He moved towards the table, pulling a paper from one of the several piles on the table next to the maps. He moved to stand next to Stiles, placing the paper on the table in front of him. “Some of our scouts intercepted an enemy scout close to Beacon’s walls,” he explained. “They had reports on the Beaconian guard, as well as your father’s intended schedule for the following month.”

Stiles felt ill as he grabbed the paper, his hands trembling as his eyes scanned the page. It was an evident threat on his father, able to provide enough information for an assassin to slip in and out before anyone was the wiser. His voice felt far away as he struggled for the words—as he forced himself to ask what he dreaded to know. “Is … is my father—”

“He’s safe,” Derek immediately reassured him. He placed a hand on Stiles’ hip, drawing Stiles back against his body for support. “I didn’t tell you because you’d worry the whole time,” he softly added. It was an additional comment meant for just Stiles.

Stiles reluctantly nodded. “I would prefer you tell me when these things happen,” he argued.

“There’s no need to bother a Consort with a monarch’s duties,” Peter sharply corrected Stiles.

Stiles turned a glare at Peter. He pulled away from Derek, pushing Derek’s hand away from him when he realized Derek wasn’t saying anything. Stiles couldn’t see the deep red Derek’s eyes burned as they glared at Peter—a silent reminder that they would have their argument later.

“If we can get back to planning the security of our own kingdom, that would be fantastic,” Peter stated.

~*~

Stiles released a pained breath, shuffling his weight in his seat. He pressed a hand under his stomach, touching the spot where the baby kicked. He massaged at the spot, smiling when the baby gently kicked in response before quietly shifting into a peaceful position.

Derek turned his attentions away from the diplomat, looking to Stiles. He barely listened to the words the diplomat spoke, knowing the man was angry and unlikely to change his ramblings despite Derek’s uninterested glare. He was looking at Stiles when he heard the small gasps and shock coming from the present Courtiers. He caught Stiles’ look of indignation before he turned his gaze on the diplomat.

“What?” Derek demanded when the silence drew out.

“Should we come back later, when your concern for your Consort isn’t as great,” the diplomat plainly stated.

Derek remained silent, briefly tightening his hold on the armrests of his throne.

“Or should we all be concerned for your Consort’s health?” The diplomat foolishly pressed. “Is the stress of a baby too much for him?”

Stiles looked at Derek, concerned that he was about to put the man on a pike right on the spot. He watched the way Derek’s shoulders shifted as if he was physically holding back his generic response to such an obvious taunt.

“I’m going to do your Queen a kindness, and say that you’ve allowed a slip of the tongue while in my presence,” Derek started, his voice uncharacteristically calm as he focused his glare on the diplomat. “I send you back, Ser, with nothing but a gesture of good fortune.”

“And how is an empty response a gesture of good fortune?” The diplomat demanded to know.

“It’s fortunate that I’m allowing you to keep your tongue,” Derek lowly stated, moving to stand from his throne for the first time. “In your Queen’s Court, perhaps you have the luxury of insulting your betters. But here, you made an unfortunate mistake, costing your Queen her hoped pact of temporary alignment with Triskelia.”

The diplomat’s features soured considerably, his expression daring to assume he could call a bluff in Derek’s response.

“Go back to your Queen, and see if she’ll allow you such a kindness,” Derek stated in dismissal.

Stiles stood, faster than he thought he could with such a weight throwing off his center. He moved to stand beside Derek, gingerly taking hold of Derek’s arm, moving to lean partially against him. He allowed his hand to run down Derek’s arm, seeking out his husband’s hand to hold. He wanted to smirk in triumph when he felt the tension from Derek’s body begin to leave him. He knew he calmed Derek, and the whole Triskelian Court had begun to catch on as well.

To insult Derek was an action to be done at the person’s own risk. To insult Stiles was to toss away any hopes the person had in quelling Derek’s anger towards them. For all the mocking Stiles suffered, everyone knew that he was the only person to reason with Derek.

“I’m sure the Ser didn’t mean such an insult,” Stiles started, holding Derek’s hand in his own. He knew that they were stronger together, and that was the one thing keeping everything from falling apart.

Derek didn’t take his gaze away from the diplomat, but allowed Stiles to pull his arm and hold his hand, completely compliant to what Stiles was doing. He trusted Stiles to make the right move, knowing that Stiles’ own talent for diplomatic negotiating was greater than his own.

“To deny his Queen any hopes of an alignment would be cruel,” Stiles pressed, turning to look from Derek to the diplomat.

Derek wasn’t a foolish, brash king who gave preference to his anger. But he was a proud king, one who was guarded because of the losses of his past. He took calculated steps, but he tended to alienate himself from making allies with amicable people.

Negotiation was Derek’s weakness, but Stiles’ strength.

Stiles smiled to himself when the meeting convened, the diplomat leaving with his tail between his legs and his head bowed low. He was proud of himself for managing to salvage some type of bargain with the diplomat, earning Triskelia more resources and a temporary ally. His smile faltered when he caught Derek staring at him.

“What?” Stiles almost snapped, almost wishing Derek would reprimand him.

“You spoke more today than you have for the past month,” Derek commented, taking his crown from his head, running a hand through his tousled hair.

Stiles wished he could run his hands through that hair. He forced himself to look away. “I’ve been busy,” he replied, pointing out his stomach.

“I can tell,” Derek answered, handing off his crown to Boyd, offering a faint nod for him to leave them. “Are you well?”

“Don’t you mean to ask if your child is well?” Stiles countered.

“I think I know what I want to ask when I ask it,” Derek replied.

Stiles looked at Derek, carefully observing him. “I’m fine,” he offered. “Tired of being exhausted and sick of being sick, and hating that my feet have swollen almost as much as my stomach. But overall, I’m fine.”

Derek’s gaze fell to Stiles’ feet. “Your feet?”

Stiles sighed, rolling his eyes. “Of course a military man automatically thinks of the feet,” he commented.

“Do you walk on your hands?” Derek sarcastically countered.

Stiles pretended to laugh, fixing Derek with a soft look of annoyance.

“Sit,” Derek gruffly stated, gesturing his head to the throne.

Stiles arched an eyebrow at him.

“Sit,” Derek repeated. “Don’t make me do it for you.”

“Manhandling a pregnant person isn’t kind,” Stiles answered as he walked, slightly waddled, over to the throne. He sat down, slouching some—Derek’s throne was comfier than his own. He was slightly confused when Derek moved to sit down before him.

Derek ignored Stiles’ arched eyebrows as he looked down at ornate slippers Stiles had managed to get away with as shoes. He easily slipped them off, resting both of Stiles’ feet in his lap.

“You don’t—”

Derek gave Stiles a simple look that asked the simple question of Stiles to remember the one time Derek did something he didn’t wish to do.

 _You married me_ , Stiles softly thought to himself.

Derek’s attention slipped back to Stiles’ feet. He always made sure he was gentle with Stiles, but was hyper aware ever since Stiles became pregnant. He lessened his touch to that of a bare feather, afraid that he would hurt the one thing he came to cherish most—afraid to lose Stiles like he had lost everything else. He drew one of Stiles’ feet into his hands, softly pressing his fingertips into the skin as he worked out the knots in the muscles.

Stiles made a soft squeak, following by faint laughter.

Derek looked at Stiles as he paused his action.

“Tickles,” Stiles explained as a soft blush burned his cheeks. “I know you don’t know what that feels like, but it can be torturous.”

“I’m very ticklish,” Derek deadpanned.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stiles replied with a smile.

A pleasant silence fell between them as Stiles watched Derek continue to massage his foot. By the time Derek switched to his other foot, Stiles felt as if he could sleep right there. His foot felt jellified, as if Derek not only worked every little pain and ache out of it with such ease but took all muscle from it as well.

“Are you at least sleeping well?” Derek asked.

Stiles softly grunted. “When the baby decides not to toss and turn.”

Derek nodded as he continued to massage Stiles’ foot. As he finished, he looked up at Stiles, a faint smile crossing his lips when he saw that Stiles was asleep. He gently placed the slippers back onto Stiles’ feet. He stood, taking a moment to appreciate Stiles’ sleeping form.

Stiles made a face of slight discomfort as he shifted to curl against the throne more.

Derek easily lifted Stiles into his arms, bringing Stiles back to his room. He ignored the way the servants paused their work to gawk at them as they passed in the hallway.

Boyd was standing outside Stiles’ room when he saw Derek approaching. He opened the door for him, smiling when he saw that Stiles was practically drooling on Derek’s chest.

“Shut up,” Derek answered Boyd’s amusement.

“I said nothing, Your Majesty,” Boyd replied with a smile.

~*~

As with all things, Stiles and Derek enjoyed a peace before their next fight was bound to break everything.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles angrily snapped as he stood from his chair. “Beacon is my home, I should be the one—”

“Your home that is being threatened by an associate of the Argents,” Derek nearly snapped. He couldn’t believe he was still having this conversation with Stiles.

“Just because it’s someone hired by the Argents doesn’t mean you automatically get to be the one that deals with it,” Stiles angrily argued.

“It’s an act of war,” Derek countered. “This is why you’re married to _me_. I deal with the physical threats, and you use your silver tongue to handle the diplomatic ones.”

“So let me handle it,” Stiles pushed.

“You’re pregnant,” Derek flatly stated.

Stiles’ face twisted in anger. “So I’m useless now? When I’m no longer just a hole to fuck, I’m useless to your kingdom’s efforts.”

“You can’t make a trip back to Beacon while this far along,” Derek growled. “If you won’t listen to me, try and recall what Melissa told you.”

“The baby isn’t expected for months,” Stiles stated.

“Do you want to lose the baby?” Derek demanded as he looked at Stiles. “Do you want to give birth to a child that won’t draw breath? Because that is what will happen if you exert yourself.”

Stiles looked away from Derek, hating that he knew he was right. “Then let me at least write the speech.”

Derek looked at Stiles, seeing the determination in his gaze. He released a heavy sigh before finally nodding in agreement. “Very well. If that will put you at ease.”

“It should put you at ease as well,” Stiles countered. “You’ll have something up your sleeve that they won’t expect.”

Derek knew Stiles had a point, faintly nodding to show his agreement.

No one with knowledge of Triskelia believed Derek capable of a thought other than bloodlust.

Stiles had taken his time to write the mandate that Derek was to address the committee. He spent the days leading up to Derek’s departure practicing the paragraphs. He tried to offer varying techniques he used while giving speeches to the Beaconian court.

“This is pointless,” Derek snapped, angrily pacing some as he threw the papers down on the table.

“You’re stressing yourself for no reason,” Stiles softly rationalized. “It’s not a big deal if you memorize it or not,” he added.

“Yes it is,” Derek barked. “Do you honestly think anyone will believe for a second that I came up with these words?”

Stiles frowned, seeing how deeply it cut Derek to be considered nothing more than a brute. He hated that even he fell victim to believing the well-constructed lie. “You’re an intelligent man, Derek.”

Derek shook his head, not believing Stiles’ words.

Stiles stood with little difficulty, his stomach had yet to swollen to the point that it was obvious. He was months along, but only recently felt the weak kicks of their child. He wished he could say that it excited him, but that excitement vanished whenever he thought about the labor he would face at the end—not many male carriers survived their first birthing. He walked over to Derek, confidently grabbing Derek’s arm to stop his pacing.

Derek looked down at where Stiles held his arm. Their intimacy had waned in recent months, but it was a welcomed gesture.

“You’re anxious,” Stiles calmly stated as he looked Derek in the eyes. “I understand that. But you need to remember that more of them are afraid of you than anything else. Use that to your advantage, and allow your words to take command and do the work for you.”

“Simple for you to say,” Derek replied. “You excel at speaking.”

Stiles sighed. “It’s the one thing I’ve managed to perfect.”

“You’ll keep Triskelia safe, and I’ll likely plunge your kingdom into all out war,” Derek critically stated of himself.

“You need to relax,” Stiles observed.

“That’s unlikely going to happen,” Derek answered as he turned crossed his arms over his chest.

Stiles hummed, taking a step in front of Derek. “I can help with that,” he stated as he pushed Derek backwards, forcing him down onto the bed.

Derek allowed himself to be swayed by Stiles’ guidance, his knees only giving way under his motion to sit. He put his hands out behind him, reclining some on Stiles’ bed. “What about the baby?”

Stiles snorted as he rolled his eyes. “Melissa said putting strain on my body could hurt the baby.” He leaned over, placing his hands on Derek’s thighs as he moved to kneel between them. “My mouth hardly seems to be under such strict orders.”

A smirk pulled at Derek’s lips. “You do seem to exercise it enough,” he commented.

Stiles pulled on the laces of Derek’s trousers, looking up at him. “Well, I do need a hobby to keep myself busy,” he uttered, taking in Derek’s quick draw of breath and the wideness of his pupils as a resounding agreement to let Stiles do whatever the hell he wanted with his mouth.

Stiles took his time with Derek, showering more attention on him than he probably should have. He ran his hands along the inside of Derek’s thighs, his mouth working its way over Derek’s cock. He licked and mouthed at the head, his hand twisting along the base.

Stiles’ slowed pace was just on the borderline of torture in Derek’s mind. But it edged into a desire to keep Stiles with him like this—just the two of them secluded from the outside world as they stole a moment for each other. Derek threaded his fingers through Stiles’ hair, an urging gesture for Stiles to keep going.

Stiles turned his head into Derek’s touch as he moved his mouth along Derek’s cock, closing his eyes as he lulled his head into a bobbing motion. He hummed a faint moan when he felt the slight prickle of nails faintly dragging across his scalp.

Derek saw his claws growing before he felt them itching at his blunt human nails to shift and change. He wanted to pull his hand back, but he knew Stiles would look up to such a reaction—an inquiry into what made Derek pull away. He ran his tongue along his teeth, noting the way his canines had elongated, but not enough to be noticed. He knew his eyes were burning red, his wolf begging to be let out—to claim the soft flesh and tender body of the human kneeling between his open thighs. Thoughts of _mate_ and _pup_ screamed at him to let go, to shift and stay here, curled tightly around the bearer of his child.

A sharp knock at the door helped Derek to reign in his control.

“Your Majesty?” A guard questioned from the other side of the door.

Stiles looked up at Derek, not stopping as he hollowed out his cheeks.

Derek bit down on his lip, knowing Stiles was doing it on purpose—to get him to be audible.

Stiles softly caressed the underside of Derek’s thigh, a reminder that one of them had to answer the guard. And Stiles was clearly too concerned with busying himself with his task at hand to be bothered.

“What?” Derek bit out. He released a sharp curse under his breath when started to bob his head again, resuming a faster pace than before.

“The convoy is prepared to depart, Your Majesty,” the guard explained. His voice was terrified of angering Derek further than he already sounded.

“The convoy departs when I’m prepared to leave,” Derek roughly answered, his gaze never leaving Stiles.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the guard quickly stated in acceptance from outside the door. “Will his Royal Consort be joining you to see you off?”

Derek released a soft chuckle, his fingers tightening in Stiles’ hair now that his claws were gone. He pulled Stiles’ head back, pulling Stiles’ mouth off of his cock.

Stiles released a labored breath, a look of annoyance at being interrupted crossing his features.

Derek’s hand moved to cup Stiles’ cheek, his thumb moving to trace along the swollen curve of Stiles’ bottom lip. “You’re already seeing me off,” he commented with a laughter in his voice.

“I was until you pulled me off your cock,” Stiles sharply answered.

“We’ll be there before long,” Derek stated loud enough for the guard to hear. “Don’t come back,” he added as an afterthought.

Stiles knew that look in Derek’s eyes—he hadn’t seen it since before he took with child. He sat back onto his heels, arching an eyebrow at Derek. “What happened to being afraid of hurting the baby?”

Derek reached down, pulling Stiles up off the ground with ease. He practically tore through the ties of Stiles’ robes, not caring about the material, knowing that more could be made to match Stiles’ want.

“Derek,” Stiles spoke his name with ease. He allowed Derek to pull him into his embrace, being turned and spread out on the bed with ease. He ignored what he thought was a strange change in Derek’s eyes—the spark of a red glow flickering before vanishing completely.

“I read somewhere,” Derek started, his mouth moving over Stiles’ throat and collarbone. “That sex helps with the pains of pregnancy,” he spoke against Stiles’ skin. His teeth grazed over Stiles’ nipple, his tongue laving over the sensitive nub.

“You’re making that up,” Stiles answered, his sharp intake of breath releasing in a breathy moan as his hands clutched at Derek’s hair and shoulders.

“If you’re scared we’ll hurt the baby, I’ll stop,” Derek firmly answered as he lifted his head away from Stiles.

Stiles released a groan of annoyance. “This isn’t fair,” he whined, dropping his head against the bed as tears burned his eyes. “I want sex, but I don’t want the baby getting hurt because I’m a horny idiot.”

Derek released a huff of laughter. “I don’t have to fuck you for us to have sex, Stiles.” He ran his hands along Stiles bared thighs, wrapping them around his still clothed hips.

Stiles released a moan when Derek flexed his hips, the feeling of Derek’s hard cock grinding against his own was enough to ignite a spark of pleasure. “The whole world is dumb, you’re a genius,” he stated as he rocked his hips with Derek, a smile pulling at his lips.

~*~

Derek took Stiles’ arm as they exited the palace walls, moving towards the convoy. He nodded in thanks to Boyd when he noticed that his horse was already properly saddled and prepared for departure.

“Promise you won’t rise to their taunts,” Stiles softly uttered when they stopped walking, knowing the Beaconian Court loved their backhanded compliments more than praise. And he knew Derek was likely to backhand more than one courtier should one such comment be uttered.

“That’s a heavy promise to keep,” Derek answered as he turned to the herald, releasing his hold on Stiles as he accepted the quill to sign the parchment.

“You waited last minute to sign documents?” Stiles incredulously asked as he side-eyed the document Derek signed.

Derek ignored Stiles’ question, turning to look at his generals and advisors. “You all have seen that through no will but my own, I signed this order into motion. To act against it is to act against the expressed commands of your King, and are treasonous to commit such things.” He looked at the men and women, waiting for one of them to show a protest now that it was binding. He turned his attention back to Stiles when he was satisfied none of them would argue. “I waited to sign this document because it was still being crafted, despite its delay do to disputes.”

“And what document could cause such disputes?” Stiles asked in a drawl, half expecting it to be a taxation on the rich.

“A command leaving you in charge of Triskelia while I’m gone,” Derek simply put.

Stiles’ eyes widened as he stared at Derek. He knew that it was rare, in a situation like this, for a royal to leave their kingdom in their foreign spouse’s hands. It showed a level of trust most arranged marriages never reached. “You’re making me regent,” he softly stated.

Derek looked at Stiles. “I thought that part obvious,” he replied.

“That’s not a popular choice,” Stiles rationalized.

“And I’m not a popular king,” Derek answered.

“Your people love you,” Stiles countered. “They won’t love this.”

“If my people love me as you claim they do, they’ll accept this,” Derek stated. He took a step towards Stiles, his hands settling on Stiles’ hips as he drew Stiles in against his body. He pressed a lingering kiss to Stiles’ forehead, his eyes looking above Stiles’ hair to see his uncle watching him. He saw in Peter’s eyes the clear anger his uncle held for his decision.

“Peter won’t,” Stiles stated, as if he was aware of the glare of contempt Peter was giving him.

“Peter won’t,” Derek uttered as he released Stiles.

~*~

Derek slammed Peter into the wall, digging his claws into Peter’s chest as he pressed his uncle into the stone. “Don’t ever presume to know what I plan on doing in times like these,” he growled.

“You let that little whore twist your perspective,” Peter hissed as his eyes glowed a cold blue. “He sucks your cock and you just turn around and give him everything.”

“That ‘little whore’ is my husband, and you will show him the respect I give him,” Derek snapped. He released his hold on Peter, walking away from his uncle.

“You can’t reveal yourself to him, Derek,” Peter sharply called after him. “You think he’ll still welcome you into his bed when he knows about the animal you are? When his child turns into a beast after losing control?”

Derek ignored Peter, not allowing that comment to infect his feelings towards Stiles. He intended on telling Stiles the truth once the baby was born.

~*~

Stiles tried to make sense of the different reports coming in from the fields. He was confused about the language used in the documents, knowing that they were catered towards Derek’s militarized way of thinking. He struggled with deciphering the words, but was proud of himself when he managed to understand them.

Stiles was exhausted, finding himself tossing and turning most nights as he tried to find a sleeping position that didn’t disturb the baby. He found none.

Stiles knew it was foolish to walk alone, but he also knew that Derek had guards posted throughout the hallways. He politely smiled at them as they stood to attention, offering a small nod of thanks for not making a commotion about seeing the King Consort walking around in his dressing gown and slippers. He drew to a stop by Derek’s rooms, pausing a distance away when he saw a young servant girl slipping out of the door.

The servant was young in appearance, though she seemed the opposite of most timid new girls that started work in the palace. She was dressed like most, a light skirt that draped from the waist. Her torso was wrapped in a corset, accenting her small curves nicely. Her bust was shamefully displayed as larger than most girls of her figure would possess, her breasts practically spilling out when she bowed to Stiles.

“Your Highness,” the servant girl sweetly greeted Stiles.

“What were you doing in His Majesty’s rooms?” Stiles asked, confused why the servants would even bother touching Derek’s room while he was away. He realized in afterthought that he was rude in his dismissal of her greeting.

“I always clean His Majesty’s rooms,” the servant girl explained.

Stiles’ lips pursed as he bit down on his tongue. “Dressed like that?”

The servant girl shyly looked down at the ground, a blush burning her cheeks. “I wear what is pleasing to His Majesty,” she explained.

Stiles felt the bile threatening to rise up. “You can’t do much in that absurd outfit,” he harshly commented.

The girl frowned. “His Majesty is always pleased with me.”

Stiles dug his nails into his palm. “Well I’m not,” he snapped. “Go back to your rooms, and stay away from the King’s.”

The girl seemed startled by Stiles’ outburst. “If the King asks for me—”

“I don’t want you in my sight,” Stiles angrily stated, his voice on the verge of yelling.

The girl drew back from Stiles. “When he returns, if he asks for me at night, as he does, I will answer his every will and pleasure.”

Stiles was shaking from his anger. He didn’t understand why he cared—he refused to accept the true reason he cared. His feelings were being broken by a nameless girl, all on behalf of Derek, and he hated the bitter aftertaste it left. He saw the parchment clutched in the girl’s hand, knowing she was trying to hide it among her skirts. He reached out, snatching the paper from her hands, unsurprised when she tried to hold onto the parchment. “Get out of my sight,” he lowly ordered. “Now!” He yelled when the girl didn’t move.

The girl bowed respectfully before turning and rushing away.

“Are you alright?” A concerned voice from behind Stiles, the guards having rushed when hearing the Consort’s voice raise.

Stiles ignored the question as he unfolded the parchment with trembling fingers.

Loving, honeyed words littered the page with flowery speech. The handwriting was poised, the sharpness a similar form to Derek’s—at least, Stiles thought it looked like the writing in the reports he had been pouring over, ones that had Derek’s commands and signature on. The words sounded foreign to the man Derek projected, and Stiles couldn’t stomach reading more. He tore his eyes away from the page when he read a confession of love.

Stiles tried to calm his breathing. “I’m fine,” he weakly uttered, finally answering the guard as he ignored the gaping hollowness in his heart.

~*~

Stiles had reluctantly accepted the letter from the messenger, knowing it was from Derek when he saw the seal. He pulled the seal apart, frowning when he realized it was nothing more than a brief update—nothing intimate, not even an inquiry about Stiles’ health or the baby. He deposited the letter onto the table, hoping to ignore it.

Derek was due home within the week, and no one had been prepared for a band of mercenaries to attack Triskelia’s walls. It appeared that the threat on Beacon was a false one this time—a test to see if the Dread Wolf would protect his charge. It was a bold move to attack Triskelia’s stronghold, Derek’s reputation as a military protégé was enough to imply that he wouldn’t leave his kingdom defenseless.

“We can’t wait for Derek to return,” Stiles firmly stated as he observed the war table.

“Your Highness, the closest of our legions is more than a day’s ride from here,” the most seasoned general rationalized.

“Even if our scout managed to get to the first legion—”

“Your Majesty,” Stiles simply stated before the second general could complete her statement.

The generals turned their attention towards Stiles, observing their King Consort with curiosity.

“My title,” Stiles elaborated, looking to the most seasoned general. “If you’re going to address me, do so properly.” He pushed a legion’s marker towards the large model of the Triskelian palace. “The Dread Wolf would not leave his den unprotected.”

One of the generals moved, startled by the vague suggestion. “Surely, you don’t mean the lupine pack.”

Stiles had thought the lupine pack was a myth, one orchestrated by those wishing to explain Derek’s ability to overpower armies too easily. A secret band of warriors, ones that answered the Dread Wolf’s orders, and only his expressed orders. And order was announced to all of Triskelia, and the lupine pack met in the midst of night, when the moon was highest, to fulfill the task at hand.

Stiles wasn’t even sure if they would answer his command to protect the palace—he had hoped they would agree if it was meant to protect what was Derek’s. He

“If we must protect this palace, then we best do so before the King returns to rubble,” Stiles stated.

“The King’s expressed command must be issued to—”

“I am his Regent while he is away,” Stiles firmly stated, looking at the generals. “You heard his words before he left—to defy me is to defy him. And I plan on keeping this kingdom in one piece for when he returns.”

~*~

“He wouldn’t listen to any of us,” the general rationalized as he stood by the throne.

Derek’s eyes were focused on Stiles, watching his husband’s every breath as it calmly left him. Derek sat up onto the edge of his throne, leaning his forearms against his knees.

“It was a rash thing to do so without you present, Your Majesty,” another general added.

Stiles kept himself calm as he stood before Derek, keeping his husband’s gaze with his own. He wondered if the generals were upset because he had managed to save the kingdom with his decision. He heard the rejoicing in the streets, even before Derek returned. He had graciously accepted the praise from the people, and that was something Stiles had in his corner.

The public loved Stiles—adored him, even. And now that he was to give them a cherished royal heir, they loved him all the more. Now that he saved their lives, there was only one wrong he could commit—not loving Derek as a dutiful Consort should.

“If I listen to them, they’d have me throw you in the dungeon,” Derek stated, ignoring his generals as he focused on conversing with Stiles. “But I know you would never do anything without a rational reason—you’re too smart for that. So tell me, husband of mine, what were you doing?”

Stiles kept his head held high, knowing that the entire Court strained to hear his response. He gathered the material of his robes in hand, making it easier for him to take the steps up towards the throne. He held his robes out of the way as he moved to gracefully kneel before Derek. He leaned forward, resting his head against Derek’s knee as he made a show to cling to Derek’s boot.

“I promise Your Majesty that I did not act out of ill will, nor out of any selfish gain,” Stiles started, refraining from raising his voice. “I thought of you, and what little I could do to protect what is yours from invaders. To protect your kingdom; the people; and even the life of your unborn child.”

Murmurs moved through the Courtiers in waves.

“That fear lead me to do a drastic, dangerous thing,” Stiles confessed. “But I tried my best to keep all that is yours safe. If that, according to your generals, is punishable, then I am guilty.”

It was a spectacle Stiles knew would win him favor—the foreign prince throwing himself to the feet of the Dread Wolf, begging for the life of their unborn child. He knew word would spread, and Derek’s fierce reputation would only grow—as well as Stiles’ ability to control the feral Wolf King.

Derek reached a hand out, running his fingers through Stiles’ hair, avoiding jostling the circlet from Stiles’ head. “I never doubted you,” he finally stated. “Let that be the end of it,” he announced, his gaze looking towards his generals. He moved to stand, his hands gently taking hold of Stiles in order to lift him off the ground.

The Court erupted with applause, joyed that their King forgave his Consort.

Stiles stood with minor difficulty, allowing Derek to raise him from the ground. He stood beside Derek, looking pass him to observe the generals. He saw how displeased they were that he managed to outwit them.

Derek waited for the Courtiers to file out of the throne room before he reached a hand up, his fingertips tenderly tracing the curve of Stiles’ jaw. He frowned when Stiles turned away from his touches.

“We apologize for causing a disruption,” one of Derek’s generals stated, her regret evident in her voice. “I ask that we move on from this, as one solidified front.”

Derek nodded, turning away from Stiles to look at the generals. “There’s much to be discussed,” he simply stated. He accepted the arm of each general as they passed, accepting their apologies. He paused when the last general embraces his arms.

The last general—the most seasoned of generals, who was so against Stiles summoning the lupine pack to defend the kingdom. Lord Blake.

“I forgive you for overstepping your authority,” Derek simply stated as he held onto Blake’s arms.

“I never meant to cause insult,” Lord Blake started.

“Insult was much more acceptable than what you’ve done,” Derek countered. “ _Nothing_ escapes me,” he lightly stated as he slowly tightened his hold on Blake’s wrists, his welcoming gesture turning torturous. “If a deer falls to an arrow in the far woods, I hear about it.”

Stiles’ confused gaze looked to the other generals before looking back to Derek.

Derek adjusted his grip when Blake tried to withdraw his hands from Derek’s grip. He grasped ahold of Blake’s wrists as he held the man’s hands in an upward position between them—as if to put them on display.

“And if my most trusted general is embroiled in treachery, I know about it,” Derek’s voice grew angry as he used his inhuman strength to curl Blake’s hands inward at a near impossible angle.

“Derek—”

“You faithfully served my mother for more than a decade,” Derek snapped, a growl booming from his chest. He was pained to know the betrayal came to Blake easily. “You served me—battle after battle.”

“I can explain,” Blake began, nearly blubbering when he realized his mistake in lingering.

“You planned the theft and rape of _my_ Consort—to have my unborn child cut from my husband’s barely swollen belly,” Derek practically hissed between his fangs. He tried to keep them back, but he knew Blake could likely see them. He knew it would just add to the man’s trembling fear. He shoved Blake to the ground, watching as Boyd and Erica grabbed the man before he could scurry away.

“He’s a witch!” Blake yelled. “He’s beguiled you! Made you believe you can’t trust any of us. The ones who have dirtied their hands to keep your throne!”

Derek looked at Stiles, catching the way Stiles had recoiled away from everyone in the room. He turned to look at Blake. “Cut his hands off and pin them to the palace’s doors—let the people know that’s what happens when someone betrays me with their soft hands.” He waited until Blake was gone, turning his attention towards the other generals. “Get out.”

Stiles was standing with his hand beneath his stomach, running his hand along the curve of his hip. It was the last place he had felt the baby kick at. He thought about how Blake argued against ordering the lupine pack to annihilate the band of mercenaries. He had wondered what would have happened had they waited the night.

Derek touched Stiles’ arm.

“I’m fine,” Stiles forced himself to say.

“I found out right before I arrived,” Derek explained. “The pack discovered letters on the mercenaries.”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t want to know,” he truthfully uttered. “I’m tired. I wish to sleep.”

Derek hesitated before reluctantly nodding. “Isaac will go with you.”

Stiles nodded, slipping away from Derek’s touch.

~*~

The tournament was a joyous occasion, a celebration of Derek’s return from the peaceful talks that took place in Beacon, as well as Stiles’ ability to keep the kingdom safe in Derek’s name. It was also an occasion to celebrate the long awaited birth of a royal heir.

The entire kingdom was present for the festivities.

Stiles shifted his weight in the chair, thankful that the servants added cushions for him. His feet ached, his stomach swollen to an ungodly size as he awaited the arrival of his child. He kept an arm wrapped around his stomach as he observed the crowd. His brow crinkled as he listened to the gossip that was centered around Derek.

“If he wins, do you think he’ll still dedicate it to Paige?”

“He always does.”

Stiles grew annoyed. He didn’t know who this Paige was, but she apparently had acquired Derek’s attentions. Part of him wondered if Paige was the name of the servant girl he had scared off. He wouldn’t be surprised if Derek won and dedicated the prize to another—it would be the first public insult Derek paid Stiles, but it wouldn’t surprise him.

“Is His Highness enjoying his first Triskelian tourney?” Peter’s questioning voice startled Stiles.

Stiles looked up from his spot, shuffling his body away from Peter as unease fell over him.

Peter made everyone feel uneasy. He was too smart for his own good, and there was a condescending manner about the way he spoke to people—Stiles had grown accustomed to it. He made it a point to ignore Stiles when others were around, keeping their conversation to a minimum. It was when Stiles was alone that he seemed to appear from the shadows.

Peter could materialize out of thin air, it seemed. He was silent in his approach, and didn’t mind to be caught eavesdropping. Some of the guards would startle when Peter suddenly appeared in attendance.

It scared Stiles how good Peter was at it.

“It’s a little hot,” Stiles partially croaked as he took the drink from Erica. He smiled, offering her a soft thanks—eternally grateful that she lingered more than the others, especially since the pregnancy was announced.

“Well, it’s a good thing His Highness isn’t being suited up in armor to compete on horseback then,” Peter curtly answered.

“Jousting isn’t my specialty,” Stiles flatly countered. “My husband seems to be a professional at hitting things with blunt force until he succeeds.”

“Did my nephew employ similar tactics in bed,” Peter commented instead of inquired.

Stiles bristled, disliking how Peter’s conversation always turned to focus on Stiles’ own sex life. He was waiting for Peter to make the accusation—to see just how Derek would reply to such a public slandering. On a number of occasions, he almost dared Peter to do it.

“My personal affairs that involve your nephew have nothing to do with you,” Stiles lowly stated, allowing his distain for Peter to be evident in his glare.

Peter allowed his own glare to rival Stiles’, looking intently for a way to degrade Stiles.

“Uncle,” Derek’s voice interrupted their silent disagreement.

Peter turned his attention away from Stiles, looking at Derek. “Nephew,” he grudgingly bowed to Derek, taking his leave of the moment.

Derek took a step closer to Stiles, his eyes tracking Peter’s retreating form. “Was he bugging you?”

“He always bugs me,” Stiles answered, shifting in his chair to accommodate the pain in his lower back. He looked up at Derek, his eyebrows furrowing as he took in Derek’s appearance. “Are you going to compete?” He knew the answer to the question, but he still didn’t like it.

Derek shifted his weight to another foot, observing Stiles carefully. “As is expected of a king.”

Stiles knew it was. He remembered his father competing in similar events, often times showing humility in more than one of the sports. But in the end, he won time and again, bestowing the gift to Stiles’ mother every time. He remembered the first tourney held in Beacon following the Queen’s death. No one expected the King to win—no one knew who he would hand the winner’s crown to. The people cheered, some even cried, when the King placed the flowered crown on Stiles’ head.

“My father stopped after my mother’s death,” Stiles stated, looking away from Derek. He wasn’t sure why he bothered telling him that, uncertain what purpose he had for revealing that truth to him. “No point to winning when you don’t have a person to give the crown to.”

“You don’t have to give the crown to your spouse,” Derek started, his tone careful, knowing that it was a delicate subject.

Stiles bristled some, wondering if that was a hint from Derek that he shouldn’t expect to be the recipient of Derek’s winning. “I know,” he stated, looking up at Derek. “My father gave me the crown the year after my mother’s passing. That was his last tourney.”

Derek gave a faint nod of understanding.

“I hear you’re the champion,” Stiles offered, unsure why Derek was lingering, knowing that people were expecting him to be preparing for the tourney’s start. “Or is it customary for the King to always win?”

Derek decided to see Stiles’ remark as less than a slight. “I don’t think they would appreciate you telling them that,” he offered. “Most of them try considerably before giving up. It’s not kind to mock someone’s best efforts.”

Stiles had no doubt that Derek was better than all of them. He had seen Derek practice sword and lance. He had even seen Derek ride horseback. He had no doubt that Derek would win because of his skills, not because of his title.

Stiles looked up when he realized Derek was leaving his gauntlet as an offering to him. He hadn’t forgotten the way his mother used to wrap her favor around his father’s gauntlet before the competition started. He silently wrapped the favor he had been straining in his hands around Derek’s gauntlet, half expecting it to be lost with little concern. He was surprised to see Derek tucking the ends of the favor into his gauntlet.

Derek took a step closer to Stiles’ chair, leaning down to press the customary kiss to Stiles’ lips. He tried not to tense when Stiles turned his head away from him. He elected to press a kiss to Stiles’ forehead, a lingering touch that begged to know what its giver had done wrong.

Stiles looked longingly after Derek, watching him descend to the tourney ground. He felt guilty, knowing that Derek had no knowledge of Stiles discovering his secret. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he tried to keep from crying. He blamed his swinging emotions on his pregnancy. He worried his lip between his teeth as he watched Derek easily mounting the horse before securing his helmet.

Stiles tightened his grip on the armrest of his chair, only averting his eyes at the last second before the lance smashed into Derek’s shoulder. He hated every second of it, hoping Derek would finish before he grew ill from the nausea. That’s all he needed—people talking about how he couldn’t stomach his husband winning the tourney only to be slighted by Derek gifting the victory crown to another.

Stiles kept his eyes on Derek as he turned the horse around, moving to start another match. He squinted his eyes against the sun, trying to look at the way Derek’s horse nearly danced with jitters. That was when he saw the horse favoring her right hoof.

“Erica,” Stiles quickly stated, reaching a hand out to grab her arm as he started to stand.

“Stiles—”

“Something’s wrong with Derek’s horse,” Stiles quickly stated.

Erica turned her head to look, taking a moment longer to notice the exact same thing Stiles had noticed. She moved to gently guide Stiles back to his chair, nearly forcing him to retake his seat—she knew Derek would come back to kill her despite what happened to himself should anything happen to Stiles and the baby.

Then it happened. The horse took a nosedive into the ground, unable to gallop forward on her injured leg. The horse’s body managed to collapse into the jousting fence meant to separate the two competitors. Derek was still in the saddle when the horse flipped.

“Derek!” Stiles yelled as he got up, moving to follow after Erica and Isaac.

Boyd was already rushing from his spot where he had been assisting Derek on the sidelines. He was the first to make it to Derek.

Stiles was the last one, his steps calculated and cautious as he tried to walk with ease, carrying a great deal of additional weight. He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding when Derek pulled himself out from under the horse, his helmet already off.

“I’m fine,” Derek huffed when Deaton tried to look him over.

“With respect, Your Majesty,” Deaton began to lecture. “You had a horse fall on you.”

Stiles pushed forward, getting closer to Derek.

Derek immediately looked at him, aware of his presence.

“It would put other people at ease, if you allowed me to check you over,” Deaton offered, catching the way Stiles was staring at Derek.

Derek begrudgingly went to the medical tent, allowing Deaton to check him over for signs of major injury. He knew he’d find nothing, but the way Stiles’ scent sparked with worry made him sit quietly and endure the healer’s poking and prodding.

“You’re the sign of perfect health, Your Majesty,” Deaton finally concluded, leaving Derek to scowl.

Stiles was still worrying his bottom lip when he turned to look at Derek. “There was something wrong with that horse’s hoof,” he finally stated.

Derek quizzically took in Stiles’ form. “You think someone tried to sabotage the tourney.”

“I’m not talking about the tourney, I’m talking about you,” Stiles countered, moving closer. “You don’t seem to understand that you dead would be more appealing to some than the fate of a tourney.”

“The tourney means the difference between life and death for some,” Derek answered as he slid off the examination table, moving to pull his shirt back on over his head.

“You’re being arrogant—” Stiles’ breath suddenly left him, a sharp pain stabbing through his abdomen. He loudly gasped, his body nearly collapsing against one of the other examination tables. He pressed a hand to his stomach, trying to stop the sharp pain from spreading. His breath was labored as he tried to calm himself.

It took Stiles a moment to realize that a pair of familiar hands on his hips was steadying him, the warmth of a chest pressed against his back. He released a faint noise of gratitude as he pressed against Derek.

“It’s just a false contraction,” Stiles finally stated, more to convince himself.

“You’re sure?” Derek asked, a touch of concern in his voice.

“Yes,” Stiles partially lied. “It could be any day now, but Deaton said the false contractions would only grow more frequent until the time came.”

“You should be resting,” Derek offered, his hands lingering on Stiles.

“I’m not the one that had a horse fall on him,” Stiles countered.

“Carrying a child is harder work,” Derek partially smiled when Stiles snorted.

“Your Majesty,” one of the guards interrupted them.

Stiles remained as close to Derek as possible, hoping that he wouldn’t leave him.

“What is it?” Derek questioned as his attention remained on Stiles.

“My lord, the people are waiting for word of your health,” the guard explained.

Stiles relinquished his hold on Derek, slowly slipping away from him. He knew where the line was drawn between them—between the man Derek was and the king he was expected to be, and a Consort was of little concern to a kingdom anxiously waiting word of their sovereign. “Go,” he uttered, not at all surprised that the guard took it to be an order for him to depart.

“You shouldn’t be left alone,” Derek insisted.

“I’ll call for Erica,” Stiles offered in solution, leaning against the table as he ignored the pain in his side.

Derek was silent as he nodded in agreement. He knew when Stiles was pushing him away, and he didn’t argue with it. He knew when he was needed, and when Stiles wanted space—that much they had managed to perfect in their marriage.

~*~

Derek kept an eye on Stiles throughout the evening, keeping a distance as Stiles expected him to. He was speaking with one of the Courtiers whom he disliked the least when he heard the sharp intake of Stiles’ breath. He could smell the anxiety and perspiration, the telltale signs that something was wrong, and as always Stiles was keeping silent. He turned to see Stiles reaching for the table beside him.

Derek didn’t excuse himself, making a direct movement towards Stiles. He rushed when he saw Stiles’ body begin to hunch. He nearly missed Stiles when he completely collapsed. He collected Stiles in his arms, ignoring the crowding of the Court around them. He turned Stiles to look at him, gently cradling his head in the nook of his arm.

“Derek,” Stiles weakly called his name, his blurred vision still recognizing Derek’s outline.

Derek easily lifted Stiles in his arms, turning to leave the room. He did nothing more than glare at the crowding Courtiers before they parted at his silent order to get out of his way.

The guards quickly moved to accommodate their king, trying hard to keep the looming crowd at bay.

“Boyd, send for Deaton,” Derek commanded as he moved passed him. He carried Stiles with ease, quickly making his way towards the sanctioned birthing room. He didn’t care about the stares that followed them.

~*~

Derek paced, anxiously waiting for Deaton to tell him something. He had been waiting over an hour for news of what was happening.

“Childbirth takes a while,” Boyd offered, his eyes tracking Derek’s form.

“I can’t hear anything,” Derek huffed in annoyance, pausing by the door, stilling his movements just in case. He could hear Stiles’ quickened breath and the murmurs of Deaton and the healers, but nothing else. No cry of a baby, nor the telltale signs of labor beginning.

“You should have told Deaton you wanted to be present,” Boyd replied.

“He told me I would be a distraction,” Derek admitted.

Stiles’ scream tore through the door. Pleas for it to stop followed by another tearful scream.

Derek quickly moved to open the door, slightly surprised when the guards remained in his way. He glowered at them, not at all sorry for the way they both cowered.

“I’m sorry, your Majesty,” one of them quickly started. “But Master Deaton specified that he didn’t want you barging in.”

Derek looked from one guard to the other. “I’m not going to reprimand you for following Master Deaton’s orders,” he started, appearing calmer than he was, especially when another one of Stiles’ screams was muffled behind the door. “But I will be going into that room. The question remains, which one of you will try to stop me from entering.”

Both guards looked at one another, evaluating their feelings towards such a response. They stepped aside, concluding that it wasn’t worth getting into a fight with their king, much less the Dread Wolf of Triskelia.

Derek didn’t waste a moment before shoving the door open, not at all surprised that Deaton didn’t even look up from where he tried to examine a struggling Stiles.

Stiles’ eyes were clenched closed, his hands fisting at the sheets of the birthing bed. His legs were wobbling from the strain of him kicking every time a sharp pain hit him. His whole body was covered in sweat, the night gown he wore was twisted around his partially flailing body.

“I told you to stay outside,” Deaton answered, eyes focused on his hands inspecting the low curve of Stiles’ stomach.

“And you told me you would take care of him,” Derek growled, annoyed when one of the healers got in his way. He moved to get beside Stiles, examining him.

“Derek,” Stiles weakly called, his eyes groggily opening to see Derek moving closer to him.

“Sh, I’m here,” Derek calmly silenced Stiles’ attempts to speak, knowing it hurt him to even breathe.

“Stiles, inhale this,” Deaton instructed, offering a small bottle to be placed under Stiles’ nose.

Stiles batted his hand at the bottle. “No,” he protested, weakly turning his head away. “It could hurt the baby …”

“It won’t,” Derek stated in reassurance, taking the bottle from Deaton. “It’s given during all birthings,” he explained as he offered the bottle for Stiles to inhale.

“I don’t trust the healer, but I’m supposed to trust the soldier?” Stiles partially quipped.

“Shut up and trust your husband,” Derek replied. A soft ache pulled at his heart when Stiles looked up at him, his eyes slightly evaluating him.

Stiles weakly nodded, turning his head towards the bottle as a sign that he trusted Derek enough for this. He slowly fell into a euphoric unconsciousness, the sedative working fast in his weakened state.

“What’s wrong with him?” Derek demanded, moving to place a hand to Stiles’ forehead.

“He’s male,” Deaton deadpanned in response. “All carriers have worse labors than women. Most of them die.”

Derek’s features darkened as he tore his eyes away from Stiles, evaluating Deaton. “You said he’d be fine.”

“I said he should be fine,” Deaton corrected him, removing his hands from Stiles’ stomach to look up at Derek. “The child is in a breached position,” he stated, as if he expected Derek to know what that meant. “Meaning that even cutting the child out at this point might result in injury for either of them.” He drew in a steady breath, watching Derek’s expression soften. “Or death.”

“Why bother telling me any of this?” Derek snapped, draining as much pain from Stiles as he possibly could, knowing that Deaton was bound to kick him back out of the room.

“Because, as his husband and King, you need to make a decision,” Deaton solemnly stated. “You have to decide, should it come down to it, between Stiles and the child.”

Derek looked down at Stiles, watching his features grimace at the pain even in his unconscious state. “That should be Stiles’ decision—”

“Stiles isn’t in the right state of mind to make that decision,” Deaton answered. “He has been coveting this child from the very beginning—paranoid that any person could possibly harm it. From that knowledge alone, it isn’t hard to estimate that Stiles would die to bring a child into this world.”

Derek stared at Stiles, knowing Deaton was right. “Even with the child being … Even then, what are the chances?”

“The child has a higher life expectancy than others,” Deaton explained. “The healing factor is weak in newborns, but still present.” He noted the way Derek was unwilling to look at him or offer any answer. “If I cut through the top of Stiles’ abdomen and pull the child out that way, it has a near complete possibility of survival.”

Derek finally looked at Deaton, waiting for the inevitable catch.

“But Stiles will die,” Deaton simply stated.

Stiles whimpered through his unconsciousness, his body involuntarily trembling through the pain.

“Your Majesty,” Deaton pressed. “I need an answer. The longer we wait, the smaller their chances of survival.”

“Stiles,” Derek finally stated, turning to look at Deaton. “If it comes down to it, save him.”

Deaton solemnly nodded, knowing it wasn’t an easy choice, for anyone to make. “I will do my best to save both.”

Derek silently nodded in reply, turning his sights back to Stiles.

“If you can promise to behave, I will allow you to stay,” Deaton added.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles smiled as he watched the tourney, Natalia twisting in his arms as she talked gibberish to him. He lovingly looked down at Natalia, making gentle noises as he pretended to devour her chubby little fingers.

Natalia joyously squealed as she lunged forward to hide her face in the crook of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles laughed at her giggles. “I love you,” he gently sighed into her hair as he held her close, knowing that he’d never before loved anything as much as her.

Natalia released a pleased huff before she leaned back, trying to look around the tourney grounds. She made a noise of recognition as she started waving her arms wildly at Derek’s approaching form.

Stiles looked up at Derek, offering a small smile of welcome.

Derek leaned down to press a kiss to Natalia’s cheek.

Natalia grabbed small handfuls of Derek’s beard, uttering an endless chain of ‘Da-da’ as she pushed her mouth against Derek’s cheek, mimicking his action to kiss hers.

Derek released a soft chuckle as he lifted her up into his arms. He hugged her against his chest, closing his eyes as he pressed his nose into her hair. He had been so scared to think about losing Stiles that he hadn’t thought for a second about losing her. He grieved his decision in his solitude after Deaton assured him both Stiles and child were well. He could never forgive himself for making that decision, regardless of having her in his arms now.

Stiles’ eyes were focused on Natalia, his mind curious as to Derek’s display of affection. He knew Derek loved Natalia—he’d seen how deeply from the first moment he saw Derek holding her. But he was scared of what Peter was whispering in Derek’s ear now that Derek left Stiles’ bed vacated. He wondered if Peter would go as far as to try and plant the seed of doubt in Derek’s mind—the doubt that Natalia was Derek’s.

Derek looked down at Stiles, catching his husband staring at him. “Are you both doing well?” He asked as he situated Natalia to rest against his hip.

“Very,” Stiles answered, leaning forward to gently pinch Natalia’s foot with his fingers. He smiled when Natalia giggled as she swung her foot away.

The trumpet signaled the beginning of the tourney.

“Ba!” Natalia loudly answered the trumpet. “Baba!”

Derek pressed a parting kiss to Natalia’s forehead, turning to deposit her in Stiles’ arms.

Stiles gladly took Natalia back, smiling as she settled in his arms with a yawn.

“Am I allowed to wear your favors?” Derek asked, prepared for the artful rejection Stiles would likely give him.

Stiles looked up at Derek. “Should I bother asking if you want to?”

Derek’s eyes narrowed in confusion as his brow furrowed in annoyance. “I should have known you’d answer my question with another question.”

“If you want to wear my favors, they are yours to wear,” Stiles sharply stated. “But you don’t have to live under the guise that you must pretend to favor me—especially when you intend to give the prize to another.”

Derek wordlessly snatched up Stiles’ forgotten favor from the chair’s armrest. He departed with anger in his stride, annoyed that Stiles was even pricklier than when their marriage started. He wished they had moved passed such childish barbs, and could perhaps even bond over their mutual love and adoration of their daughter.

It had been no surprise to anyone that Derek won. It had been a shock to Stiles to have Derek ascending the steps to both him and Natalia.

Stiles kept his gaze on Derek, holding Natalia in his lap as she joyfully bounced with excitement when she saw Derek was coming closer to them.

“Dada,” Natalia exclaimed, reaching out for Derek’s outstretched arms. She released a loud noise when she saw the crown adorned in flowers.

Stiles had been surprised when Derek moved to place the crown on his head. He laughed when Natalia reached up for the crown, her hands grasping at the flowers. A fond warmth spread through his chest when the crowd laughed with adoration.

Derek leaned forward, pressing a kiss against the corner of Stiles’ lips. He faintly smiled when Natalia lunged forward to kiss his cheek. He pulled back, watching as Natalia settled against Stiles’ chest in order to aid herself in reaching up for the flower crown.

Stiles released a soft laugh when Natalia pulled on the flower crown to take it into her hands. He looked up at Derek, a pause in his joy before he looked away with solemn features. He wished he could have believed that Derek gave him the crown willingly.

~*~

Stiles ran his hands through his hair as he tried to stylize it. He released an annoyed huff of anger when his hair stuck up in ridiculous angles. He stared into his vanity’s mirror, wondering if he could just place the circlet on his head and hope for the best. He twisted the circlet around in his fingertips as he debated getting ready—wondering if he could fake illness.

“You’re thinking of skipping the ball,” Derek commented as he finished pulling his trousers on. His gaze lingered on Stiles.

Stiles looked in the mirror to observe Derek. “We’re back to talking after fucking?” He hollowly uttered as he looked back at himself in the mirror’s reflection.

“Not that you make it easy,” Derek answered, stuffing his feet into his boots as he leaned against the unmade bed. He tied the laces with minor anger. He was growing increasingly annoyed with Stiles’ attitude towards the concept of them. He was angry that Stiles pushed the idea of a royal mistress sneaking about the palace grounds.

“Perhaps I don’t like this,” Stiles huffed as he carelessly dropped the circlet onto the vanity, leaving the ornate metal to clatter against the wood.

“If you don’t like _this_ then stop inviting me in,” Derek countered as he forcefully grabbed his shirt from its discarded spot. He started to march by Stiles, heading for the door.

“A King takes what he wants,” Stiles mockingly quoted Peter as he turned in his seat to look at Derek.

Derek paused his footsteps as he stood with the door partially open. “Why do you have to be so damn insufferable?” He snapped as he looked at Stiles.

Stiles’ features soured, a twisting feeling in his gut at the contempt in Derek’s tone. “Stop coming to me,” he lowly stated. “You have somewhere else to put your cock.”

Derek wordlessly slammed the door shut, blocking his exit out of the room as he turned towards Stiles completely. “Enough!” He angrily stated when Stiles dared to open his mouth to counter Derek’s action. “I’m tired of your incessant nagging on this subject,” he bitterly addressed Stiles. “I tell you the truth over a dozen times, and you ignorantly ignore it.”

“It’s not ignorance to know the truth,” Stiles argued.

“Just because you wish it to be true, doesn’t make it so, Stiles,” Derek lowly answered, standing his ground as he watched Stiles stare back at him.

Stiles stood, ignoring the way his robe partially fell open. He marched over to the small bookshelf he had been afforded to maintain in his rooms. He pulled out the copy of poems his mother had gifted him. He turned, flipping open the cover of the book to pull the folded parchment from its hiding spot. He tossed the book of poems onto his vanity with his forgotten circlet, moving towards Derek with purpose. He shoved the parchment against Derek’s chest, as if it burned his fingertips to keep holding onto it.

Derek quickly grabbed the parchment to keep it from falling to the ground when Stiles released it. He looked from Stiles to the parchment, moving to quickly unfold its creases in order to see its contents. He saw the sharpness of curved letters scrawled across the otherwise blank parchment. His brows creased with uncertainty as he read the words.

“When you were at Beacon,” Stiles explained to Derek’s seemingly bewildered expression. “Before Natalia was born.” He tore his gaze away from the offending parchment. “I found the servant girl who frequents your bedchambers. She had that clutched in her hand as she tried to hide it among her skirts upon leaving your rooms.”

Derek looked at Stiles. “I don’t have a servant girl visit my rooms,” he simply put.

“I _saw her_ , Derek,” Stiles angrily stated. “Don’t treat me as a foolish child.”

“You are a foolish child for not believing me when I first told you that I don’t have a mistress,” Derek quickly stated. “Why would I need a mistress when I have you?”

Stiles stared at Derek, unable to answer such a question.

“What did she look like?” Derek simply asked.

~*~

Part of Stiles felt bad for the young girl as he watched her bow her head lowly, a terror in her eyes as she obediently prostrated in front of them.

Derek had asked Erica and Boyd to look for the girl, determined on proving that he didn’t know her. He had pulled Stiles away from the ball, having Stiles follow his lead. He wasn’t surprised when Stiles’ features twisted upon seeing the woman.

Derek threw the forged love letter down at her, watching the parchment land by her hands. “I want to know what you were doing in my rooms,” he calmly stated. “With a love letter claiming an origin from my hand.”

“Your Majesty,” she softly started. “I was checking on your rooms, to make sure they were ready for your return.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Derek lowly stated, his tone turning darker. “You’re alive because I want answers.”

Stiles stood beside Derek, catching the girl’s gaze when she dared look up. “You lied to me,” he stated, unable to stop himself. “You said that you visited His Majesty’s rooms frequently—that you’d continue to do so to his pleasure despite my anger.”

Derek slightly turned his head to look at Stiles.

“I want to know why you lied to me about this,” Stiles pressed.

“I did as my father commanded me,” the servant girl finally confessed.

Stiles pursed his lips as he tried to think of who the young woman’s father was.

“Lord Blake,” Derek suddenly huffed.

The servant girl barely nodded.

Stiles looked at Derek.

“Did your father hatch his plan to paint me as an adulterer before or after he planned on attacking my husband,” Derek demanded as he took a step towards Lord Blake’s daughter.

“I don’t know,” the girl answered, cowering under Derek’s glare. “He wanted me to slip into Your Majesty’s bed—to try and persuade you against the foreign Consort. But I never told him I hadn’t succeeded! He would have been cross with me.”

“You were helping your father commit treason,” Stiles informed her.

“That’s not how it happened,” the girl quickly countered.

Stiles looked at Derek before looking at the guards. “Get what information you can from her, then let her go,” he commanded.

“Let her go, Your Majesty?” The guards questioned as they looked from Stiles to Derek.

Stiles turned to look back at Derek. “What use is she alive or dead? She’s not going to be a snake in our midst anymore.”

Derek briefly nodded in agreement.

Stiles knew Derek agreed with him, despite the small part of Derek’s reputation that pushed for traitors to have an end put to them. He knew it all by the way Derek pressed him against the stone of the hallway’s walls, the way Derek kissed him as they fucked behind the small coverage the draped ornately-decorated tapestry allowed them.

Stiles had little hope, however, that this would fix their current predicament. He hated how distant he felt from Derek, despite knowing that the rumors about the servant girl turned royal mistress were nothing but fabrications now. He had no delusions about them growing closer, his hope dwindling when Natalia’s birth seemed to even fall short in fueling anything between them.

~*~

Derek heard the drawstring of the bow, the telltale sound of the wood bending to the pressure of the string being pulled back. He reacted as fast as he could, shoving Stiles to the side as the arrow came soaring through the air. He felt the arrow pierce his shoulder, forcing him off his horse and tumbling to the ground.

Derek woke to Stiles’ worried, tearstained face leaning over him. He held a tight grip on Stiles’ wrist as he kept him from pulling the arrow out. He had to admit to himself, he never thought he’d live to see the day Stiles cried over him being wounded. He had difficulty fighting Stiles on anything, eventually giving up and silently heading back to the castle once Stiles yelled enough.

It had been only a day when the healer dared to come back to Derek and Stiles’ room. Derek yelled at the man to get out, not wanting him in the room a second longer. He didn’t need some quack poking at his wound, only making it worse. He already questioned as to why the wound wasn’t healing at his normal pace—unless the arrow had been intended to kill a Wolf King. His thoughts drifted to Peter, wondering if his uncle dared to try and usurp the throne now.

Stiles huffed in annoyance as he watched the healer practically run out the room. He moved to grab the soiled bandages, discarding them onto the medical tray one of the servants held for him. "You've been unreasonable," he stated.

"The man's an idiot," Derek barked back. "I'm stuck in this room because the Court is incompetent enough to let a would be assassin escape their grasp."

"Doesn't mean you can't be reasonable," Stiles countered, ignoring the servants as they entered and exited the room.

"I've very little incentive to be reasonable with them," Derek replied.

Stiles moved to lean over Derek, placing his hands against the bed, by Derek's hips, as his face hovered close to his husband's. "Make this easier for us both by catering to these pompous fools and their delicate egos, dear husband, and I will ride your cock for the entire night, and we'll both put our fellow horny neighbor to shame." He gently kissed the tip of Derek's nose before standing up, a faint smile gracing his lips when he saw the servants hurrying out, pretending that they didn't just hear his offer.

~*~

Both of them were panting heavily, sprawled out on the bed. Derek rested on his back, turning his head to see Stiles motionlessly laying on his stomach.

"I think you broke me," Stiles murmured into his pillow.

Derek snorted in response. "We won," he replied, a smugness in his voice. He was amused when the sound of their neighbor’s stamina collapsed about half an hour into their foreplay. He knew the noble on the other side of the wall was likely overwhelmed with shame when Stiles vocally orgasmed a second time.

Stiles turned his head to look at Derek, catching sight of the blood seeping through Derek's bandage. "And you tore open your shoulder again," he scowled as he moved to sit up.

Derek reached a hand out, pulling him back into the bed. "I don't want servants in here," he stated. "And I definitely don't want that moron healer back in here."

"Fine, but I'm changing your bandages," Stiles countered as he slipped out of bed, forgoing clothes as he gathered the extra bandages he had the healer leave. He turned his head to see Derek observing him, looking at his naked form. "I'm not going another round," he stated, knowing what Derek was thinking, moving over to the bed once more.

"I doubt that," Derek uttered as he sat up to allow Stiles access to his shoulder.

Stiles remained silent as he worked on wiping the blood from Derek’s wound. He placed a fresh, clean bandage around Derek’s wound, conscious of the way Derek’s fingertips trailed along his hip.

Derek couldn’t stop looking at Stiles with utter adoration, knowing that he was telling.

~*~

Derek pressed into the kiss Stiles initiated, loving the intimacy that Stiles was giving him. He brushed his fingertips across Stiles’ cheek, wanting to chase after Stiles’ lips. He felt Stiles’ shyly smiling into their kiss. “I’ll see you tonight then,” he uttered, hope lacing his words.

Stiles quickly nodded in response, releasing Derek as he moved to leave. He caught the look Peter was giving him.

Derek turned to look at Peter, catching the annoyance in his uncle’s aura. He kept his gaze on Peter, even after Stiles disappeared. He drowned out the voices of the generals, thoughts of Stiles swirling around in his mind.

“You seem to be in love,” Peter commented as he stood beside Derek.

“You seem to be intruding on things you shouldn’t be,” Derek countered with a glare.

“Think without thoughts of your cock for once,” Peter harshly stated. “You’re planning on telling him what we are. Think about how that could end.”

“We’ve had this conversation before,” Derek lowly replied. “And I didn’t care for it then either.”

“You’re the brute that stole him away from his home,” Peter simply stated. He turned to look at Derek. “You used him for bodily pleasure, forcing him to carry your spawn. You think he’ll _make the best_ of the situation after revealing the truth? He’s barely made the best of it so far.”

Derek looked away from Peter.

“You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t bar your from your child, let alone from his bed,” Peter continued. “He could find comfort in a number of others’ beds, so don’t think he won’t scare away at the first sign of a monstrosity.” He released an annoyed sigh. “Tread carefully, nephew. You once thought a human loved you. Look where that got us.”

Derek ignored the burning of tears in the back of his throat, hating his uncle for knowing how to twist the knife of guilt deep into his gut. Images of Stiles’ once happy expression turning to one of repulsion etched into his mind. He kept from Stiles and his bed, knowing that he couldn’t face him without that guilt boiling over.

The following night, Deaton asked to meet with Derek.

“Stiles is distraught, to say the least,” Deaton explained as he watched Derek pace before the fireplace.

“He dreams of my death,” Derek hollowly stated.

Deaton observed Derek. “He wakes up screaming because of it.”

Derek paused his pacing as he turned to look at Deaton. “Nightmares?”

Deaton nodded. “He told me that he’s had these dreams before. He dreamt of his mother’s death. And now he’s terrified that he’s dreamed up your death as well.”

Derek shook his head. “Why should he care?”

Deaton arched his eyebrow at Derek. “Honestly? He loves you, whether or not one or both of you wish to admit your feelings. And Stiles’ premonitions are something to respect, not look your nose down at.”

Derek crossed his arms over his chest as he looked down at the fire. “He doesn’t know I’m a werewolf—that I’ll heal. These dreams of his can’t know that.”

“Pretending to rationalize these nightmares away will not stop them from becoming a reality,” Deaton answered.

“I will do what I have to in order to protect what is precious to me,” Derek countered as he looked at Deaton. “That includes fighting in battles when need be.”

Deaton shook his head. “You can’t protect Stiles if you are dead. We both know he would not last long with Peter scheming in the shadows should something remove you as the buffer.”

Derek remained silent as he looked away from Deaton.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” Deaton addressed Derek’s reluctance to back off. “In the very least, stop ignoring him. It’s not a crime to love your Consort, despite what your uncle likes to say.”

~*~

Derek’s wolf nearly snapped when it saw the way the diplomat touched Stiles, the intimacy activating his hair trigger. He wasn’t in the right state of mind when he followed after Stiles, practically cornering him in his rooms.

Stiles was the one that pulled Derek close, accepting Derek’s every apology spoken against his skin. He writhed on the bed as Derek’s tongue took him apart, the pleasured sensations pushing their fight towards the back of their minds.

It had been too long since Derek touched Stiles in a loving manner. Even when Derek had been wounded, they shared a bed as little more than a distraction for one another to find a release.

Tonight was different. Derek took his time licking into Stiles’ heat, his arms locked around the low curve of Stiles’ hips in order to prevent him from squirming away from the stimulation.

Derek’s name fell from Stiles’ lips like a mantra—a plea Stiles barely understood. He wasn’t sure if he wanted it to end or for it to go on forever. His feet kicked against Derek’s side as his body twisted against Derek’s prodding tongue and fingers. He gasped when Derek reefed him back towards the edge of the bed, cracking a slight yelp from his chest. His legs trembled as Derek sucked a hickey into the inside of his thigh, a possessive mark for just the two of them to know about.

Derek easily flipped Stiles with no warning, smiling at Stiles’ yelp of surprise. He gave Stiles only a brief break, long enough for him to watch Stiles crawl into the middle of the bed with languid movements.

Stiles’ voice cracked with pleasure when Derek pushed into him, his arms trembling as he struggled to keep his strength as Derek’s hips hammered into him. “Don’t— don’t stop,” he encouraged as he opened his legs wider, his spine curving as he dipped into the bed to give Derek a better angle. He cursed when Derek stopped.

“Say it again,” Derek asked, unsure if his voice wavered with the emotion he felt. He wanted nothing more than to hear Stiles say those words again—to know it wasn’t just part of the moment. He wanted Stiles to admit that what they had was _more_.

Derek smiled some when Stiles pushed him down into the bed, allowing his mate to press him down against the furs. He allowed his hands to trail along Stiles’ body, enjoying the view of Stiles on top of him like this. His wolf was pliant and practically whimpering when Stiles kissed and nipped at his throat.

“You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Derek kissed Stiles with the words he couldn’t say. With the love he had been so afraid to admit.

~*~

Derek took his time tracing his fingertips over Stiles’ skin, his body curling around Stiles’. He could tell Stiles was nearly asleep, the way his breathing was evening out into a slowed pace. He couldn’t help thinking about what would have happened if he never accepted the treaty with Beacon. He couldn’t help being plagued by the thoughts of the man he would have been—the family he would have—had his family lived. He thought about Paige’s parents, and the pain they always held in their eyes when they saw him.

“She died,” Derek suddenly stated, unsure why he wanted Stiles to know the truth.

Stiles’ body stirred some, waking from the lull of sleep that pulled at him. He turned onto his back, leaning back to look up at Derek. He settled into the bed, furrowing his eyebrows in question.

“Someone wanted to kill me,” Derek simply explained. “They accidentally poisoned the wrong cup.”

Stiles stared at Derek. “Did you love her?” He softly asked.

“I thought I did,” Derek answered, his eyes tracking the way his fingertips traced the small curve of Stiles’ hip. “As a teenager, maybe I did.”

Stiles reached his hand up to cup Derek’s cheek, forcing Derek to look him in the eyes.

“She accepted me for what I am,” Derek explained, remembering the way Paige cupped his face in her hands, a loving gesture that didn’t flinch at his shifted form—the kisses she pressed to his shifted brow. “And that was what made me adore her more.”

Stiles hesitated before nodding in acceptance. “I don’t want to replace her,” he offered. “But I want you to know that I do accept you for who you are.”

Derek moved down the bed some, resting his head against Stiles’ bare chest. He wished he had the courage to admit it here and now. But he was too afraid of ruining what they had.

Stiles ran his fingers through Derek’s hair as he held Derek there. He pressed a kiss into Derek’s hair, hoping it helped calm him.

~*~

The threat of the Argents pulled them apart.

The only thing that kept Derek calm ended up being Stiles’ letters. He longed for their time together. He wondered how long it would be until he was on the road home. He worked tirelessly to speed things up, hoping that he could face off the Argent’s threat.

Derek never thought he’d be outwitted.

“If your men don’t stay, the townspeople will be slaughtered,” King Jon stated, unmoving after Derek ordered Scott to take him through the old merchant’s trail.

Derek’s eyes searched the scoured landscape. There were no advantages to the near trench the small marketplace made. It was a land trap that the Argents knew was there. “Get the king out of here,” he ordered Scott as he turned to head down to his men.

Scott turned to address the King. “Your Majesty—”

“Where are you going?” The King demanded to know.

Derek turned to look at him. “I promised your son I’d keep you safe. The Argents don’t know about the merchant’s trail—it’s safe. Head down the trail with your guards, and I will send as many townspeople as I can to follow you.”

“You’re evacuating,” the King stated in understanding.

“This isn’t a battle that I can win,” Derek answered, admitting his defeat.

“I thought the Dread Wolf could overcome any foe,” the King questioned, wanting to know Derek’s intended plan.

Derek turned his attention away from the King. “Not everything can be defeated by brute force.” He looked at the King. “Your son taught me that.”

The King understood that Derek had no false hope that there would be a different outcome.

Derek turned, taking his leave. He descended the steps, making his way towards the front. He felt the gaze of so many—the townspeople who only knew him from rumor alone. He knew they held a false hope that he could scare their terrors away with his own ferocity. He grabbed Isaac as he passed him, pulling the young soldier with him. “I want you to make sure these people get out before the line breaks.”

Isaac faltered in his steps as he looked at Derek. “What about the reinforcements?”

Derek hesitated before shaking his head. “There is no guarantee they were ever on their way. The Argents could have intercepted the command.”

“You can’t mean—”

“We _will_ hold this line for as long as we can,” Derek pressed in a firm voice. “But we can’t hold it forever.”

Isaac stared at Derek, reluctantly nodding with the understanding of their situation sinking in.

“Get them to safety,” Derek repeated. “That is the main priority.”

“What about you?” Isaac asked.

Derek looked away from Isaac, his thoughts racing to Stiles. He wished he could have some sort of comfort to offer. “If I fall with my men, bring my helmet back to my husband.” He forced himself to nod in agreement with his own statement. “I think Stiles can accept that.”

~*~

His men fought and died by his side. He couldn’t count the number of soldiers he lost under his command. He knew his mother had been right—it didn’t matter the numbers, or the experience of an army, it was sometimes luck that meant the difference between victory and defeat.

And the Argents were lucky.

Derek watched his men fight, and die, this day. And he couldn’t help but curse himself. He had known nothing but war in his lifetime, and somehow Stiles had started to change that. Before Stiles, Derek would have welcomed death on the battlefield. But now, there was so much he would lose.

Stiles. Natalia. And now their son.

In his arrogance, Derek thought this battle would have faired the same as the others. He hoped he could win through the fear his namesake brought him. He had planned on holding off the Argents without sparing a thought to what would happen should the reinforcements never come.

The sound of the retreat trumpet told Derek it had been much worse than he thought. He placed his men in a hopeless position—feeding them into a death grinder.

Derek lost his helmet in the fray, his vision disoriented by the assault. He managed to kill one attacker, losing sight of the other. He stumbled to the ground when a sharp pain pierced through his stomach. He reached a hand up to touch the blade protruding from his abdomen, his every breath a painful reminder that he was dying.

Derek could remember so much of his lifetime, muddied by pain and anger. He could see his family, their life before his mother brought him down to that crypt where his father was laid to rest. He felt the laughter he shared with his sisters as they played on the palace grounds. He trembled with the guilt of losing Paige, how young and stupid he was to think he could have had an eternity with someone so pure. He could feel nothing at the memory of Kate—how hollowed out and numb he was to everything when the fire tore through his life.

But the memory that hurt the most was Stiles.

Love taking Derek by surprise was never something he planned on. He hadn’t realized he was still capable of feeling anything but stubborn resilience against the world. But somehow, Stiles dug his way under Derek’s skin, and stayed there, curled around his heart.

It felt fitting, that everything shattered apart the moment Derek thought he had it all.

~*~

Derek woke in a strange house, his wounds healing at an excelled rate. He couldn’t remember how he got there, nor what happened to him. He was told about the battle for Beacon. He was informed that he had been found crawling away from the battlefield, his body breaking apart the more he struggled to get away from the stench of death.

Derek learned the trait of a blacksmith, finding an affinity for crafting weapons of war. He wondered if he was more than just a soldier. His scars held untold stories, the truths to who he had been.

And who he had lost.

Time seemed to meld together, holding almost no meaning to him. He started to form an existence, but not a life. He moved from day to day with little interest, finding himself trudging through it all in search of some meaning.

Derek grew closer to Braeden. It was no surprised when they kissed.

It felt wrong, Derek’s bones aching with betrayal. He pulled away from her, apologizing for being unable to return such affections. He was emptied of the life he had, yet somehow still craved it.

Derek was working on one of the many commissions they had been given since Beacon had been liberated from the Argents. He was focused on mending the broken blade when he heard the softest voice—the angelic voice of a child.

The child was young, her voice sweet with interest as she talked to Braeden about the weapons for sale.

Derek shook the feeling off, pretending there wasn’t a twisting in his stomach—the pain of familiarity building in his spine. Another voice sparked something in his chest.

This voice was a calling—a lure to bring Derek home.

Derek sought out the voice, following after the sound. He saw the retreating figures, guards flanking them. He grabbed Braeden’s arm, desperate for answers.

“The King Consort of Triskelia,” Braeden answered Derek’s panicked questions. “He was the prince of Beacon before marrying the King of Triskelia,” she calmly explained.

Derek turned his attention towards the crowd, catching sight of the young girl clinging to her father’s hand.

The little girl turned to look back at Braeden, catching sight of Derek. She smiled at him, waving to thank him too for the gift.

Derek could barely believe what he saw—a young girl who looked so similar to his fractured memories of his childhood. A girl who looked so much like the ones he called his sisters. But there was something different about this girl—she had the most beautiful eyes; eyes that looked a great deal similar to someone’s he couldn’t forget completely.

~*~

Stiles. Derek had forgotten Stiles.

That became clearer to Derek the moment he reached the kingdom’s gates. A sense of déjà vu fell over him as he entered the gates, heading into the city. A familiarity of sights and sounds came rushing back to him, as if he was being hit by memories of another life.

The smell of the fire spoiled the air, the bitter taste of smoke invading Derek’s senses. He followed the screams and shouts for help, rushing towards the palace. He knew he had seen this before, the way fear heavily gripped his heart—as if he was losing everything all over again.

The guards were rushing, scrambling for a way to proceed in keeping the fire under control. Some of the guards appeared to calm when a figure emerged from the palace, a crying bundle in his arms.

“The Consort and crown princess are still in there,” Scott answered the questions of the guards as fast as he could, a cough erupting from his lungs protesting the smoke. “We have to—” He froze when his gaze fell on Derek. “That’s impossible.”

~*~

Stiles fought as much as he could, his arms hitting Peter in an attempt to stop him. He started to lose consciousness as Peter choked him.

The roar was loud, reverberated off the ruined walls.

“You can’t be alive,” Peter uttered in disbelief at seeing Derek stand amongst the fire torn hallway.

Derek allowed his Alpha shift to take over, a snarl growing from his chest as he snapped his fangs at his uncle. All he could focus on was Stiles’ limp body beneath Peter, having witnessed his Beta’s attempt to murder his mate.

Everything came rushing back in that moment, a flood of anger overwhelming Derek’s need to protect Stiles. He charged Peter in his blinded rage, prepared to rip apart the force threatening everything he loved. He couldn’t be bothered to care about tearing Peter apart.

Stiles was limp against the cold stone, his body pliant as Derek collected him up into his arms.

Derek lifted Stiles with ease, pulling him out of the flames that were surrounding them. He wasn’t going to lose Stiles again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 will show moments from where Things We Lost left off :3


	3. Chapter 3

Derek held Samuel in his arms, smiling down at his son sleeping in his arms. He had wondered if Samuel would recognize him as pack—if they could transcend the absence they’ve held from each other’s lives. He would offer the space beneath his other arm to Natalia, letting her curl against his side as she drifted off to sleep, too. He never wanted to give up his hold on them, finding that he missed so much.

Where Natalia looked like Derek, Samuel strongly resembled Stiles. His button nose turned up, a dust of freckles across it. His eyes were brown, a golden ring around them. He talked more than Natalia had, his sister more prone to speaking random gibberish, while he acted as if he held a profound conversation with the most random of objects. He would grab at his feet when no one was looking, bending himself in half to stuff his toes in his mouth, giggling whenever someone chastised him.

Derek had grown used to waking in the middle of the night, hearing more than just Samuel’s cries. He felt strange being in Beacon again, only this time he had his family surrounding him. When one of the children cried out, he would slip from the bed, leaving Stiles to sleep longer. He didn’t mind forgoing sleep to console one of the children, finding himself trying to make up for the lost time. He knew he could never get those days—years—back.

Derek was pacing by the fire, Samuel resting against his shoulder as he rubbed small circles into his son’s back. He listened to Samuel’s small sobbing breaths, releasing a soft rumble from his chest to help calm him. He remembered his mother doing the same for him, even at an older age—it was a comforting noise, hearing one’s Alpha offering a solid sound comforted the wolf within.

Samuel’s body eventually laxed with sleep, his arms dangling off of Derek’s shoulder. He drooled on Derek’s shirt, mumbling something in his sleep as Derek moved him back to his bed. He tensed from the sudden lack of heat before curling up around the stuffed ram Derek pressed into his embrace. He curled his limbs around the stuffed ram, his fingers playing with the horns in a repetitive manner.

Derek left Samuel’s room as quietly as possible, slipping into the hallway with ease. He turned to head back to his and Stiles’ room when he saw the soft light coming from Natalia’s room. He moved to the door, peeking his head into Natalia’s room. He saw her sitting at her vanity, gazing into the mirror as she leaned in close, the candlelight barely illuminating anything.

Natalia released a dejected huff as she sunk back down in her chair. She covered her face with her hair before folding her arms against the vanity in order to rest her head there.

“Natalia,” Derek softly stated as he opened the door more.

Natalia startled at her name being called. She sat upright, turning in her seat to look at her father. She quickly looked away, remembering that her face was still shifted.

Derek frowned, uncertain why her reaction was to shy away. “What were you doing?”

Natalia bunched her hands into fists as she pressed them against her knees. She stared down at her knuckles. “Looking,” she plainly offered.

Derek moved to kneel in front of her. “Why are you hiding?”

Natalia sighed. “Because,” she offered. “I’m not pretty right now.”

Derek couldn’t explain what he was feeling, but he was certain it was something akin to heartbreak. “Why do you think that?”

Natalia looked up at Derek, her brow still shifted. Her eyes glowed a bright, liquid gold as her fangs forced her lips to part. “I don’t look normal,” she answered. “I’m ugly,” she softly mumbled as she clenched her eyes shut.

Derek allowed his shift to take over—his brow twisting to build up, his eyes burning red as his fangs elongated. He reached his hand up to touch Natalia’s chin, making her look up at him.

Natalia stared at Derek, her eyes scanning his altered form.

“I don’t look normal,” Derek stated, his hand dropping away from Natalia’s chin. “Am I ugly?”

“No,” Natalia quickly shook her head. “But daddy isn’t like this.”

“No, he’s not,” Derek agreed. “But I still find him beautiful. Don’t you think he finds us beautiful, too?”

Natalia released a heavy sigh. “I don’t know,” she weakly uttered. “Uncle Peter said mean things,” she confessed. “That we’re hideous animals. That daddy couldn’t love us—that we’re too different.”

“We are different,” Derek offered, reaching a hand up to push some of her hair back from her face, hooking the stray strands behind her ear. “But still beautiful. And daddy loves us both—Samuel, too.”

Natalia moved off her seat, hugging onto Derek tightly. She clung to him, desperate to hold on.

Derek lifted her up into his arms, carrying her out into the hallway. He made his way passed the guards, uncaring of their curious looks as he brought them both back to Stiles.

Stiles stirred when he felt the weight dipping the bed. He turned his attention towards Derek and Natalia, a small smile on his lips when he saw them. He stretched as he sat up, reaching his arms out above his head. He opened his arms to Natalia when Derek set her on the bed.

Natalia happily accepted the gesture, crawling across the bed and into Stiles’ arms. She nuzzled into his embrace, curling up against him.

Stiles pressed a soft kiss into her hair as he looked up at Derek. He could see the red glow of Derek’s eyes through the darkness, knowing that Derek had shown Natalia his altered appearance. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asked through his sleepiness.

“Bad dream,” Natalia offered as she kept hanging onto Stiles.

“It’s all over now,” Stiles softly comforted her, hugging her tightly. He looked up at Derek, watching his husband for a sign that there was need to worry.

Derek silently got into bed with them, resting on his side so that he could see them both.

~*~

“You never explained your visions,” Derek commented one day, his attentions waning from the reports of repairs being done to the Triskelian palace.

Stiles looked at Derek, surprised that he even mentioned them. “Is there even a way to explain them?” He softly asked as he looked down at the plans in front of them. “I’ve had them since I could remember. It doesn’t mean I understand them, or can even explain them.”

Derek reached his hand out, taking hold of Stiles’. “I’m not saying that you should know. But they’re worth looking into.”

Stiles looked at Derek. “Can you explain _your_ abilities?” He asked.

Derek looked at the others sharing the room with them, seeing how uninterested they were in his conversation with Stiles. “No, I can’t,” he offered as he looked back at Stiles.

“Then perhaps I’m not meant to be able to explain mine,” Stiles replied. “I would rather we heed them more than anything. They’re a blessing.” He looked at Derek. “I don’t want to risk losing them, or making them worse.”

Derek frowned at that. “I didn’t think of that. But if that’s how you feel, then I can’t help but agree.”

Stiles reached a hand up, gently cupping Derek’s face. “I love you,” he softly stated, his heart beating sure and true as he calmly took in Derek’s features. He wanted Derek to see that he had meant it—that what they had been through meant nothing now that they were together. He never wanted Derek to leave his side again, and he feared the day would come that they couldn’t even pray for a reunion like this.

Derek reached his hands up to caress Stiles’ face. His fingers ran lines up Stiles’ jaw, pushing up past his sideburns and ears. He cradled Stiles’ head in his hands, marveling in just being able to hold him like this. He pressed a soft kiss to Stiles’ lips, parting briefly to touch their heads together. He drew in a steady breath. “And I you,” he answered.

Stiles allowed his smile to grow, unsure how he became this lucky. Most days he woke, still terrified that he was going to reach for Derek and find his side of the bed cold. He knew Derek worried about it, having witnessed his hysterics when he woke one morning to find Derek gone from the room. He wouldn’t deny his happiness in knowing that the newly renovated Triskelian palace was to see his rooms connected with Derek’s—beds big enough for them to choose where they wished to spend their nights together.

“You are the grace of my life,” Derek easily breathed, his fingertips tracing Stiles’ features with adoration. “You gave me so much, Stiles. More than I thought anyone could ever give me.” He pulled his head back away from Stiles. “But I never deserved you.” He let his hands fall away from Stiles, prepared to leave it at that.

Stiles grabbed Derek’s arms, forcing him to not turn away. “We gave each other a family,” he firmly argued. “So many have called me a blessing on your life, when they are ignorant of how you have been the saving grace in mine.” He reached his hands up, cupping Derek’s face in his hands. “Please don’t degrade yourself as so many others have.”

Derek reached his hands up to hold onto Stiles’ wrists. He pulled one of Stiles’ hands away from his face, pressing a kiss to the inner curve of Stiles’ palm just below his thumb. “For you, I’ll try.”

~*~

Derek stood before the statue that had been erected before his sarcophagus. He ran his hand over the decorative cover that was meant to hide his body from sight for any that visited the royal crypt. He turned his head to look passed the statue, catching sight of his father’s and mother’s. He looked back at his own, seeing the same cold unlikeness there that he saw in the others.

The statue stood tall, masterfully carved. But it was clear that the creator had based Derek’s likeness off official portraits, and the stories that circulated about him. The statue’s facial features were sharp, eyes blank and devoid of the emotions that had been placed into the statues of Derek’s parents.

Derek had heard the doors to the crypt open, the soft steps rushing down the stairs in order to seek him out. He turned to see Natalia wearily looking at the other statues before reaching him. He reached down to take her into his arms, holding Natalia against his chest.

Natalia was wearing a gorgeous dress detailed in rich designs. Derek recalled that the dress’s pattern was a cross between both his own decorative cape and Stiles’ dress shirt. The fabric of Natalia’s dress made it appear heavy, as if the skirt itself was firm enough to stand on its own. It was easy to understand why she disliked it.

“Daddy didn’t know where you were,” Natalia offered, her eyes looking at the statue of Derek. “I don’t like it down here, Papa,” she announced, leaning into Derek’s chest more.

Derek pressed a kiss into Natalia’s forehead, his hand brushing her hair back away from her face. “Neither do I.”

“Daddy used to come down here all the time,” Natalia offered, her face twisting up at the memories of her father emerging from the crypt, tears staining his face.

“I’m hoping there is little reason for any of us to come down here again,” Derek offered, turning his back on the crypt as he started to walk them back upstairs.

“Papa said that grandma and grandpa have statues down there,” Natalia curiously started. She picked at the ornate collar gracing Derek’s chest, her fingernail digging at one of the emeralds embedded in the metal casing.

“They do,” Derek answered.

“And if you have one there, that means Papa will have one there too,” Natalia stated.

Derek wondered where Natalia’s thoughts were focused—if she was fearful what the statues could mean. “There was a time, long ago when this kingdom was first formed, when slabs of marble were easier to come across than paint and canvas.”

Natalia looked up at Derek.

“The people used the marble to carve images of their leaders when they passed, to preserve the memory of their looks,” Derek continued. “It’s a tradition that we’ve upheld, to continue with the statues after we pass despite having enough paint.”

Natalia looked at Derek curiously, pursing her lips as her eyes moved to look back down the stairs of the crypt. “Will I have a statue one day?”

Derek paused, recalling how he asked his mother the same thing. “One day, sweetheart, if you wish to.”

Natalia hugged Derek tightly, resting her head against his shoulder as he walked them back to the renovated throne room.

The throne room had suffered little damage. The fire had consumed the residential wings of the palace, but was stopped before reaching the more significant parts of the palace. It was clear that Peter had intended to murder many in their beds.

Derek walked slowly into the throne room, his eyes falling on Stiles as the painter continue to work. He watched as Samuel tossed and turned in Stiles’ arms, wishing to pull on all of the items he could find attached to Stiles.

“Sammy,” Stiles sighed, trying to get him to stop wiggling.

“Dada,” Samuel replied, smiling up at Stiles as he grabbed at his hair, transfixed in staring at the circlet on top of Stiles’ head when the silver caught the light.

“Your Highness, please,” the painter irritably huffed.

“He’s a baby,” Stiles nearly snapped at the man. “I’m sorry if he doesn’t want to hold still,” he stated as he looked up at the painter. His features softened some when he saw Derek and Natalia.

Derek walked over to the painter’s station, his gaze falling on the painting. He noticed that his own outline and detail was more or less finished. He knew, having had his portrait done a number of times, that there would be a great deal more done before the portrait was officially revealed, but Stiles’ side of the portrait was nearly incomplete.

Similar to Stiles, Derek had been sitting in his throne, his hand propped enough to hold Stiles’ over the armrests of their thrones. Natalia stood beside Derek, her hand resting on Derek’s arm as she stood tall and regal.

“Your Highness—”

“Majesty,” Derek quickly stated from his spot behind the painter.

The painter startled, turning quickly to see that Derek was standing there behind him. “Your Majesty, I apologize.”

“Don’t insult my husband by misaddressing him again,” Derek simply stated as he set Natalia down from his grasp.

Natalia ran over to Stiles, not caring if she ruined her dress as she climbed up into the throne with Stiles. She smiled when Samuel reached for her.

Stiles fondly watched his children embracing one another, his arms wrapped around them both to prevent either one of them from falling. He looked up at Derek, softly smiling at him when he realized that Derek was looking back at him.

~*~

Stiles’ voice loudly cracked as he tried to catch his breathing, his arms clutching his pillow against his chest. He pressed his cheek into the pillow, clenching his eyes closed as he curled his hips against Derek’s thrusts.

Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ torso, his hand gripping Stiles’ arm as he held him close. He moved against Stiles, his movements getting faster. He mouthed against Stiles’ shoulder, pressing kisses to Stiles’ enflamed skin.

Stiles shifted his hips back, lifting his leg up towards his chest.

Derek grabbed Stiles’ leg, his hand gripping his thigh as he helped lift it up towards Stiles’ chest.

Stiles reached a hand back, fingers threading with Derek’s hair as he tugged on the locks. He turned his head to look at Derek, leaning his head in close to kiss Derek. He gasped when he felt Derek still against him, one final firm thrust into him.

Derek pressed a fleeting kiss underneath Stiles’ jaw before pulling away. He caught his breath as he threw the sheets back out of the way. He faintly smiled at Stiles as he sat between Stiles’ legs.

“How are you not exhausted?” Stiles softly panted, his body still strung tight as he looked up at Derek. He let his legs lay limp against the bed.

“Werewolf stamina,” Derek answered.

Stiles arched his eyebrows at Derek, a silent question asking if Derek was serious.

“Enough to keep satisfying you,” Derek answered, scooting his own body down the bed to pleasure Stiles with his mouth.

~*~

Stiles leaned against the balcony, setting his goblet down on the railing’s edge. He looked out over the party in the gardens, watching as countless courtiers laughed, gossiping in loud voices as they took in the festivities. He wondered if Natalia and Samuel were sleeping yet, almost curious if he could slip away to read them a story.

A phantom touch grazed across his spine, slowly descending until it reached the small curve of his spine. An arm moved to wrap around Stiles’ waist, a warm body pressing against his back as he was enveloped in a hug.

Stiles smiled, leaning back into the familiar body. “I thought you were speaking with diplomats,” he simply stated, lifting his goblet from the balcony’s railing and to his lips.

Derek hummed as he pressed a kiss to the span of Stiles’ shoulder. His teeth gently nipped at Stiles’ neck. “I was but this is more fun,” he finally commented, pulling Stiles flush against his body. His eyes looked out at the courtiers in the garden, the ones that could see them. “You think they would even care if disrobed you here?”

Stiles softly chuckled. “I think you’d care,” he answered. “The exact reason I haven’t commissioned a painter for a naked portrait of me.”

Derek huffed out a barely audible growl of disinterest at the idea of someone staring at Stiles’ naked body for hours on end. His hand cupped over Stiles’ hold on the goblet, moving to lift it to his own lips.

“You’re not going to like it,” Stiles simply said, not going against the action to place the goblet against Derek’s lips.

Derek took a sip before nearly sputtering as he pushed the goblet away. “ _That_ isn’t wine,” he commented as he coughed the tartly sweet taste from his throat.

“I told you that you weren’t going to like it,” Stiles answered with a smile. He took his own sip of the sweet mixture—honeyed water and various other herbs.

“You never pass up the chance to drink when surrounded by these fools,” Derek commented as he moved away from Stiles, heading towards the small serving table servants replenished often. It was something most royals could look forward to in their bedrooms.

“Drinking wine wouldn’t be smart of me,” Stiles replied. “Besides, this is the only thing that settles my stomach in times like these.”

Derek’s movements paused as his hand gripped the wine pitcher. He turned to look at Stiles.

Stiles took Derek’s silence as a sudden realization. He turned to look at Derek, arching an eyebrow at him. “It’s partially your doing, by the way,” he added.

Derek’s eyes fell to look at Stiles’ stomach. He discarded the wine pitcher back onto the small serving table. He walked over to Stiles, pulling him into a searing kiss.

Stiles laughed into their kisses, moving his goblet out of the way. He wrapped his arm around Derek’s shoulders, his hand moving to cup the back of Derek’s head. He twirled the small locks of hair at the base of Derek’s neck.

Derek held Stiles close, his arms wrapped tight around Stiles’ torso. He pulled back from their kisses in order to take a full look at Stiles.

“Promise me,” Stiles spoke as he stared Derek in the eyes. “Promise me you’ll be here—that I won’t be left alone this time.”

“I told you,” Derek started, hating how scared and broken Stiles sounded at the prospect of being left alone again. “I’m never leaving you again.”

Stiles nodded, knowing Derek meant his promise. “I suppose I’m not against you disrobing me near the balcony, then.” He faintly snorted when Derek’s eyebrows sunk in expression. He released a high pitch laugh when Derek nearly wrestled him to the ground.

~*~

Derek laid on his back as he held Stiles against his chest, focusing on the feeling of every breath Stiles took. He enjoyed the calming rhythm of Stiles’ deep breathing, finding a comfort in having the continuous rhythm against him. He looked between them, catching sight of the protruding curve of Stiles’ belly resting against his side. He knew that within the coming weeks they’d have to sleep in a different position when the baby grew bigger.

Derek rested his head against the top of Stiles’, his nose being tickled by the wild strands of Stiles’ hair. He couldn’t find himself caring—he had his husband, and his children, and even without the kingdom it would be enough. He counted his blessings, knowing that the scattered ash of his life had only been the foundation. He thought he would never come to love or care for another thing in his life, completely—and pleasantly—blindsided by Stiles.

Derek looked back down at Stiles. He silently mouthed the words he felt, even knowing that even they couldn’t express his true emotions strong enough.

 _I love you_.

“I love you, too, Derek,” Stiles effortlessly answered through his sleep.

Derek wasn’t afraid of the future—he wasn’t afraid to live his life, not as he had been when his mother brought him down into the royal crypt. He looked forward to living a life with Stiles that reflected how he would be remembered.

Not as the Dread Wolf, but as a loving husband and caring father.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE (12/8/18): Now with brand new artwork from the lovely [benaya-trash](http://benaya-trash.tumblr.com/)! [Find her original post on tumblr here](http://benaya-trash.tumblr.com/post/180410372207/the-dread-wolf-by-dexteroussinistrous-who-who)!


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